


The Twelve Days of Christmas: A Ka lā hiki ola Christmas Special

by slice_of_fiction



Series: Ka lā hiki ola [2]
Category: Moana (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Special, Comedy, Explicit Language, F/M, Family Feels, Just For Kicks, Mild Sexual Content, Not sure where I'm going with this, Romance, but I'm doing it anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-09-16 03:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slice_of_fiction/pseuds/slice_of_fiction
Summary: McKenna Wolford is tired of feeling like a Scrooge.It's been thirteen going on fourteen years since her family last celebrated Christmas, and McKenna is determined to change that. This Christmas, she vows, is going to be the best Christmas ever. She has twelve days to make this possible, and nothing is going to stop her. Not some jerk at the mall, or even a pigeon can stand in her way. But with each passing day, her patience and determination is tested. Can she really pull off the best Christmas ever in only twelve days? Or will everything end in utter disaster?In this rom-com spin-off of Ka lā hiki ola, McKenna will learn that there's more to Christmas than presentation. It's not about the gifts or the lights, or even the food. It's about something special, something magical. And together, with the help of her friends, family, and the handsome Demi-God, Maui, she'll learn what that special something is - and how it makes Christmas so great.





	1. December 13th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super excited for this! I hope you guys enjoy what I have planned. I'm going to do my absolute best to update a new chapter each day leading up to Christmas, but forgive me if I fall behind once or twice as I am in the middle of studying for finals (last day is Friday, so that will help monumentally). 
> 
> Without further adieu, let's dive into this!!

Before Mom passed away, we used to go all out for Christmas.

In terms of decorating, we were _that_ family: The kind who strung up lights all over the rooftop, down the house eaves, around the pillars, _National Lampoon_ style. The kind who set out strobe lights and large signs out in the front yard, complete with a plastic Santa seated atop a plastic cherry red and gold sleigh, pulled by eight plastic lazy-eyed reindeer.

The kind who purchased a tree, a real _living_ tree — like, who does that anymore? — and hung so many dazzling lights and ornaments on it that it sagged forward.

The kind who turned their house into a ‘roided out version of Santa’s Wonderland, chock full of peppermint-scented candles, tassel, ribbons and bows, holly berries, wreaths, Nutcracker statues and a whole host of DIY-inspired crafts.

We had more Christmas decorations than we knew what to do with, and then some.

It all started in the twinkling hours of my parents’ relationship. Dad said they used to do a lot of thrift shopping when they couldn’t think of any good date ideas. It might seem silly to an observer, but for my parents, thrift shopping was…special, in a way I don’t think could ever be understood.

Or, you know, maybe there wasn’t any meaning in it and they just got bored and wanted to goof off. I can’t speak for them.

All I remember is it being a running joke in our family for the longest time. Whenever the holidays rolled around, or an anniversary, or someone’s birthday, the first thing we would suggest was “thrift shopping.” And nine times out of ten, we went.

And it _really_ was a lot of fun.

Elaine and I mostly kept to either the book or kid sections. I have a shelf in my bedroom dedicated entirely to all the dolphin merchandise I was able to find in thrift stores, and Elaine’s bookshelf is still filled up with books dating all the way to the early 1900s.

Dad loved to search high and low for his archaeology-nerd mumbo jumbo — but each time, without fail, it was Mom who came home toting the most bags. And each time there was always at least one new Christmas decoration/art piece.

Now listen. I get the fixation with the holidays, truly I do. And I’m not trying to out myself as a Grinch or something because I’m not. But Mom’s obsession with Christmas decorations…you could say it was a bit _manic_.

She would buy Christmas decorations in the middle of summer; she would buy them _the day after Christmas_.

She would bust them out in the first week of November — by-passing Thanksgiving, much to my fathers’ chagrin — and designate portions of the house for us to complete that usually averaged three days. (Our shortest recorded time is one day, twenty-two hours, forty-seven minutes and fifteen seconds. (Yes, Elaine and I timed it. And yes, I remember it. That shit was a _milestone_.))

My task was never just one singular part of the house, it was all over it. I knew how to make the perfect wreath — the DIY videos Mom had recommended actually paid off for once. Each year, I made a new wreath out of materials and ribbons purchased throughout the year, one for each person in the house. We would hang them up on our doors and wouldn’t take them down until Christmas was officially over.

It was stressful, those days of non-stop work, but no matter how much it irked us - no matter how badly we wished to revoke Mom’s credit card to keep her from buying anymore decorations - we always did it. Because when all was said and done, our house looked spectacular. Decorating was the one thing that unified us…especially toward the end.

Elaine, who was reaching double-digits at the time and therefore considered herself a “grown up” with “responsibilities” and “priorities,” had started spending less and less time with us and more time in her room or with her friends. We fought a lot and angered our parents a great deal. But the minute Christmas came, we knew that decorating would be the thing to bring us back together, if only for a few weeks.

They were the best few weeks of my life.

After Mom passed, it all just…stopped.

Our first Christmas without her, we sat in the garage for almost two hours sifting through the decorations, unable to muster the strength to pull them out of their boxes. Dad tried to string up some lights and be festive — he even sang Christmas songs in November, one of his greatest pet peeves — but it wasn’t the same.

Without Mom, the atmosphere felt all wrong. Things could never go back to how they used to be.

We haven’t decorated the house in almost fourteen years. The boxes have been sitting, undisturbed and swathed in a moist layer of dust, in the garage. None of us have talked about or even hinted at bringing them out; if Dad and Elaine had it their way, they’d probably lock those boxes in a time somewhere, never to see the light of day.

But I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want the torpid, glum atmosphere that comes with the season to take away from Christmas. I want to decorate the house and sing Christmas carols and wrap presents and be a jolly little freak. I want it to be how it used to be when I was a child, even if I’m not successful. Even if my efforts end in disaster.

And no matter how much I have to beg and grovel at my fathers’ feet, I _will_ get him to reconsider bringing out Mom’s decorations.

Come Hell or high water.

~*~

“All right. Let’s do it.”

Seated in my fathers’ musty leather chair with the stiff, way-too-high backing, I blink in astonishment. Dad smiles, setting his pen in the crease of his journal. He leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his lap.

I chuckle. “Wait…are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “It’s been far too long since we last decorated the house. I think it’s a great idea.”

“I…but… _really_?” I scratch my temple, suddenly flustered. “O- _kay_ …huh. It’s just - I had, like, this long dramatic spiel planned out to get you to change your mind, and _now_ …like, you can’t just agree point-blank and…I mean, you _know_ this was Mom’s thing, right?”

“Yep.”

“Aaaand, you’re not against it?”

“Nope.”

“So…so if it was that easy then why haven’t we done it earlier?!”

“Because you never asked.” I balk and he smiles. But it’s not humorous or bemused - it's wistful. He sucks in a deep breath, massaging a thumb nervously over his knuckles. “No. That’s a bit unfair of me to say, even in jest. By now I’m sure you _must_ know the real reason why. After your mother…well, it was just too painful. Looking through all of those decorations, remembering when she purchased them…the spark that lit her eyes when she showed them to me in the store…it was like opening an ossuary. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

Dad removes his glasses and wipes his eyes, which are a little moist. My throat threatens to close.

He takes a moment to compose himself and slips the glasses up the bridge of his nose. Our eyes meet, and in them I see the same determination festering inside me, swimming about in those brilliant blues.

And I see hope there, too. _Excitement_.

“It’s time,” he says. “In fact, this is long overdue. Your mother is probably looking down at us and glowering in that special way of hers.” At the same time, Dad and I scrunch up our lips and attempt our best impersonation of Mom’s Infamous Glower. And we laugh because neither one of us can do it very well. Elaine is the only person who could ever come close. “Ah, she would be disappointed in me. But she would be proud of you.” Dad pauses. “ _I’m_ proud of you.”

_Well, that does it._

A few rogue tears tumble from my eyes, and I’m quick to wipe them away. “Jeez, Dad. C’mon. Don’t get mushy on me, you know I don’t like to cry.”

He rounds his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I just thought you deserved to know. Now.” He closes his journal and slides it away from him. Palms flat on the table, he stands. “Where should we start?”

~*~

Phone pinched between my shoulder and my ear, I help Dad slide one box after the other from under the tarp.

For some reason unbeknownst to us, my grandparents (Dad’s parents) decided to gift us with a whole bunch of their ~~crap~~ stuff in the Spring of 2003. Around that time they were gearing up to move into a nursing home, and since they couldn’t find anyone willing to purchase the things they were selling…we _had_ to humor them. They threw in a pool tarp for some odd reason, and it was the biggest anomaly because they didn’t even have a pool.

Luckily, we were able to find a use for it: We covered up the decoration boxes to keep them dry. By that point, however, some of the damage had already been done. The dust had created a thin film, kind of slimy, and mice had chewed holes into the corners. And also by that point, there was nothing to be done about the smell.

 _God_ , do they smell.

On the fifth ring, Maui answers…and immediately my ear is graced with a static-y roar. I recoil, phone slipping down my collar. I catch it quickly, teetering back and forth to keep the box balanced on my hip.

In the midst of all the howling, I’m able to make out, “Frowny? Can you hear me?”

“Maui. Jesus, what is that noise, where are you?”

“That, my dear, would be a plane. I’m flying over the Pacific Ocean.”

I blink. Pull my phone back and stare at it. Press it back to my ear.

“What?”

“ _I’m flying over the Pacific Ocean_ ,” Maui repeats, emphasizing each word.

I groan. “ _Maui_. We talked about this…well, _I_ talked. You probably ignored every single word I said. You can’t operate a phone and fly at the same time.”

“Sure I can. I’m doing it right now, aren’t I?” He chuckles. “Nah, but I will admit, it _is_ a bit tedious trying to balance flying in a straight line and talking on the phone. The first time I tried this, I dropped the phone and couldn’t catch it in time. You remember that?”

I grin. “Of course I do.”

About nine months ago, I bought Maui his first burner phone so we could talk to each other anytime while he was away. So far, he has lost and/or destroyed six of them. His first burner phone, he tried calling me after he transformed into a hawk, just to see if he could.

The good news is, he could.

The bad news is, he didn’t have a good enough grip on the phone.

I listened to the phone plummet, my ear filled with the cacophony of high-pitched whistling and Maui’s erratic shrieking. Then there was a loud smack, some popping noises - and the line went dead. When Maui showed up on my porch a few hours later, he held the busted phone in the palm of his hand, a sheepish grin on his lips.

It was hilarious the first time. The other five, not so much.

“Like, I am a _Demi-God_. I’m practically perfect in every single way. But if I, the pinnacle of all that is great, can’t even _talk and fly_ , what makes you humans think you’re capable of texting while driving?”

“That’s the thing,” I say, huffing as I plop the box down on top of another one. “We _humans_ don’t think about it. We believe we’re invincible. Kind of like you, Mr. Immortality.”

Dad shambles by, juggling a large, heavy bin through the hallway. He pauses when he sees me on the phone. He mouths, “Who is it?”

“Maui,” I mouth back.

Dad grins, asks me to say hello, and shambles along, grunting and groaning all the while.

“When did I ever say I was invincible?” Maui retorts, sounding wounded.

It’s fake and he’s doing it for kicks, but for a split second I feel a twinge of guilt. Because I know as well as he does that Maui, though immortal, is _not_ invincible. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.

But good luck getting him to admit it.

“Maui, your narcissism knows no bounds. You say it all the time, just not directly.” I shuffle into the garage and pull the tarp back a bit further. There are only a few more boxes shoved to the back, containing the bulky red letters that spell “Merry Christmas”, Santa and his sleigh, and the eight reindeer. Other than that, Dad and I have managed to move all of the interior decorations into the house. I fling the tarp back over the boxes and continue, “Anywho, Dad says hello.”

“Ah, Henri! How’s he doing? I’ve missed the old man.”

I snicker.

“I heard that.”

“You were supposed to. If anyone’s an old man, it’s you.”

“Yeah, yeah. So how is he?”

“He’s good. A little bit…nostalgic, but good. He’s helping me bring in Christmas decorations from the garage.”

“Oooh, getting festive in the ol’ Wolford Inn, eh? Guess I’ve got something to look forward to.” Maui pauses, and I hear in the background what sounds like squawking. Maui sucks in a deep breath and, in a mighty voice, shouts, “Outta the way, _kaw_ -holes!”

I giggle at the frantic burst of flapping feathers, the hysteric series of squawks and shrieks from what I assume to be seagulls. Maui laughs gleefully.

“You know what, there seems to be quite a bit of traffic today. Should I let you go?”

“No, no,” Maui replies, all too hastily. “It’s just…” There’s a long string of silence, save for the soft whooshing of the wind. I stop in the threshold of the garage door and place a hand on the frame, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s been almost a full month since I last heard your voice,” he says in a low, measured voice. “I’ve…I’ve missed it, Frowny…I’ve missed _you_.”

My heart sputters. A tingle of giddiness shoots up my spine.

Cheeks warm, I cup the phone close to my ear and say, “I’ve missed you, too, Maui.”

I can practically hear the beaming smile in his voice when he says, “So. Wanna know how everyone is back on Motunui?”

“God, yes. Tell me everything.”

While Maui dives into his tale about his recent trip to Motunui, I hoist some of the smaller boxes into my arms and lug them toward the front room, where we usually stick the tree.

The room is as long as it is wide, with a grand mahogany table at its center and a fireplace punched into the far wall. Paintings and diplomas cover the right-hand wall. A giant canvas painting with a gold floater frame is mounted above the mantelpiece. Mom, Dad, me when I was three and Elaine when she was six beam brightly at me.

The left side of the room extends into a nook, complete with a window seat and a bookshelf. Aside from my bedroom, this is my favorite part of the house to be in, especially in the wintertime. When it snows and everything outside is doused in glistening white, I like to curl up in the farthest window with a book and a mug of hot chocolate. Sometime I’ll spend just hours sitting there, staring out at the world, watching snowflakes whirlwind to the ground.

We used to put the tree in the middle of the nook for the world to see. But the space has been barren for nearly fourteen years. No more. I’ll call Ideal Christmas Trees tomorrow and see how fast they can deliver a tree to our house.

I place Maui on speakerphone and begin tearing open the boxes, cringing as dust and mouse poop disperse into the air and across the floor. Immediately upon opening, I’m exposed to the rich, musky smell of scented pine-cones and cinnamon sticks. Glitter coats every square inch of the inside of the box, already finding its way to my arms and my clothes.

This is the ornament box. It’s filled to the brim with plainly colored balls of red, gold, and silver; glass ornaments stowed carefully in canvas boxes; plastic and metal ornaments that resemble popular Christmas icons, movie personas and more, such as Ron Weasley (Elaine’s favorite ornament), a teal blue dolphin with a silvery glaze running down its back (my favorite ornament), and a dinosaur playing a ukulele (a gag gift for Dad, who surprised us by showing a great deal of love for the ornament).

And then there’s Mom’s favorite ornament, packed safely into a pink heart-shaped box. I cradle the box in my hand and pry off the lid. A glass ball with striped layers, each in different colors ranging from pale blue to beige to creme white to peach, sits nestled in cloth. Each layer holds a chain of repeating symbols that wraps around the ball, of stick men on canoes, turtles swimming in uneven lines, ocean swells, and other such intricate designs.

I don’t remember where Mom got this - certainly not from a thrift store, that’s for sure. I think she said it was a gift from a friend, but I have no idea who that could have been. But it’s definitely Hawaiian.

Or is it Samoan? I have a hard time distinguishing the two.

I set the ornaments I want to hang on the tree on a sheet of cloth spread out across the table. Maui continues to ramble, talking about a dance Maluhia and her friends performed the other night. It has something to do with her tripping and shredding the hem of her _lavalava_ , and I giggle and ooh and aah at all the important bits.

In the middle of the story, a loud crash sounds from the living room, followed by my fathers’ exasperated, “Ah, _shit_.”

“Oh, and then Etu, the big oaf, he tried to—”

I’m quick to cut Maui off, “Hey, this is a really interesting story and you can totally tell me the rest of it when you get here, but I think my Dad broke something in the other room, so I’m going to have to let you go now.”

“Oh. Well, okay then. Watch where you step. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Sure thing, _mom_ ,” I tease before hanging up the phone. I high-step over the gutted boxes and make my way to the living room. When I get there, I find Dad hunched over the TV, hands on his knees. “Dad, is everything okay?”

“Yes. No. Well…” He rubs a hand over his face and gestures to the box beside him. “I’ll let you be the judge.”

I move toward the box and crouch down. Half a dozen statues sit inside, wrapped in paper. Three of them are still wrapped. One of them is resting on its side. The two my father has uncovered — a statue of Snow Miser from the classic movie _The Year Without a Santa Clause_ , and another of Rudolph and Hermey — are broken. Snow Miser is missing both of his arms and the tip of his nose; Rudolph has been decapitated.

“How did this happen?” I ask.

“I…couldn’t tell you,” Dad says, dejected. “Maybe I set it down too hard on the floor, maybe they broke when I cleaned out the garage a few months ago. I don’t know.”

I purse my lips together and bring out the statues. I set them on the floor and then pick up the missing pieces left behind. “Well, nothing a little superglue can’t fix. Where’s the glue gun?”

“Should be in the hall closet.”

I hand him the pieces, pat him on the shoulder, and head for the closet. I want to tell him that it’s an easy fix and nothing to get too upset over, but I have no right. Those were Mom’s favorite statues. She had them before I was even born. They were perhaps the only decorations we managed to bring out every second or third Christmas.

I can see why Dad would be frustrated.

I open the hall closet and throw myself into the chaos looking for the hot glue gun. I’ve just made it to the back after making the three-foot trek over “Mt. Storage” when the doorbell rings. My pulse spikes as, for a moment, I think it might be Maui. But with some quick rational thought, that's quickly debunked. If he’s currently flying over the Pacific, then he’s got quite a ways to go. He’s fast, but not _that_ fast.

Quickly, I search the arts and crafts bin, retrieve the hot glue gun and a few sticks, and worm my way out of the closet. The doorbell chimes again, multiple bursts that quicken the longer they go unanswered. I slide to a stop in front of the door, unlock it, and pull it open.

“Hell-”

I barely get the word out before the duo standing on our porch — Elaine and Richard — barrel past. A freezing chill hounds after their quivering bodies and I’m quick to shut the door.

“Holy shit,” I mumble, teeth chattering, goosebumps rising along my arms. “It’s freezing out there. Sorry to keep you both waiting so…” I turn around. “…long.”

Elaine and Richard, wrapped in each others’ arms, bundled in several layers of clothing, stand in the foyer of our home, shivering violently. Their lips are pale blue, their noses and cheeks a rosy red. Elaine’s hair is mused and her skin is pale.

And when she opens her mouth to speak, I just know.

“H-hey, sis. Good to see you.”

Elaine and Richard are sick.


	2. December 14th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to reiterate and do away with some confusion, this story takes place in an alternate universe completely separate from the one the original KLHO takes place in. A lot of the characters are similar, but the story and their situations are vastly different.
> 
> (Also, holy ish, forget my update daily plan. These last three days completely effed me over. I am so sorry, you guys.)

It's late, nearing 4 o'clock in the morning, when Maui staggers through my balcony doors, bathed in pale moonlight and perspiration.

His heavy footfalls rouse me out of a dead and dreamless sleep. My heart launches into my throat as I watch his hook somersault out of his hand and come to a rest at the base of my bed. The wind yowls past his broad back, filling the curtains and yanking them skyward; the plastic hooks rattle and whine against the metal rods. Snow flurries whirl past his stocky legs, tumbling along the floor.

I shout something at him, but it's drowned out in all the noise. Quickly, I throw off my comforter and rise to help him shut the doors, but he grabs the handles in his massive fists and forces them shut with relative ease.

The room stills. The curtains flutter down from the ceiling. The house creaks, settles, and surprisingly, no one comes bursting down the door to check on me.

For what seems like an eternity, the only sound that occupies the space is the calming thrum of my mobile fan and Maui's labored breathing.

" _That_ ," he finally says, breathlessly, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, "was _not_ the grand entrance I had planned."

He takes a single step forward, and something inside me clicks. A deep-seeded yearning I'd been housing since his departure little over one month ago sprouts forth, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed. I leap off the edge of the bed and glomp him, my legs somehow finding themselves wrapped around his wide hips. His skin is like ice and his hair is, well, coated in literal ice, but that doesn't deter me from thrusting my hands into those dark, crystallized curls.

Maui chuckles and caresses my cheeks in his hands, eyes sweeping slowly over my face. Tracing every line and curve, every small scar and blemish, with adoration transparent in his expression. A goofy grin spreads across his lips as he drags a thumb over my jaw, pinches my chin, and tilts my face up toward his.

"By the gods," he whispers in a thin, tremulous voice. "I have missed you, McKenna Blaine."

He dips his head, his long lashes fluttering shut. His encouraging fingers tap a steady rhythm into the curvature of my lower back with all the grace and swiftness of a pianist, impressing a soundless song into my skin. His thumb slips beneath the hem of my camisole, skimming up, up.

My breath hitches, a hybrid of anxiety and excitement wrenching my stomach. I'd completely forgotten that I was dressed in the bare minimum: A frilly pink camisole and underwear.

Yes, even pressed against Maui's frigid body, in my now-frigid bedroom with snow flurries melting beneath our feet, I'd somehow _forgotten_ what I was wearing. That, kids, is what love (and a little bit of lust) will do to you.

But if there's one thing I've learned from Maui, it's that modesty is a privilege; you would think so, too, if you lived with the guy. He walks around, all the time, in nothing but a _lavalava_ \- in public, down the street for a walk, even in negative degree weather. It's a miracle if you can somehow convince him to exchange that raggedy old tutu for a pair of shorts.

Besides, it's not like there's anything about me that Maui hasn't seen before...

I arch my back and meet his patient lips in a kiss. He tastes of sweat and desire. He moans into my mouth, one hand pressing into my spine, the other cradling the underside of my thigh. I trace a hand down his neck, along his collarbone, flattening my palm against his pec where Mini-Maui stands holding up the sky. I pull back; Maui grunts in protest, but his attitude changes when I duck my head and kiss the tattoo.

Against his skin, I murmur a sweet hello to Mini-Maui who, with an infatuated smile, lowers his arms to wave back...and drops the sky over his head.

I giggle, glancing up at Maui. His eyes are lidded, though I can't say for sure if it's because he's tired or turned on or envious.

If I had to guess, it's a mixture of all three.

"Sometimes I wonder who you love more," he teases, "me, or this tiny bastard." He flexes his pec in regard to Mini-Maui. The poor guy, having barely recovered from being crushed underneath the weight of the sky, is launched off of his mountain. I watch him coast helplessly over Maui's shoulder and disappear behind his back.

"I love you both equally," I say, twirling a lock of Maui's hair between my fingers. "I mean, it's kind of impossible for me to love one more than the other: You're both the _same guy_."

Maui holds up a hand and shrugs. "All I'm saying is, _he's_ the one who ends up getting the most action."

Mini-Maui scuttles around his bicep and resumes his place on Maui's chest, brows furrowed in anger. He taps his foot and gestures wildly with his hands. Maui flits his eyes to the ceiling in annoyance.

"Yes, you do, and you know it."

"Boys, boys, no fighting. If you can't get along, I'll make you sleep in the attic - where there's roaches and spiders and mice - instead of in my warm, cozy bed."

Maui's eyes widen. Mini-Maui rears up on his tippy-toes and begins searching the ground, chewing his fingernails nervously. Maui gives him a reassuring pat and says, pointing a finger at me, "I told you never to threaten us with that. You _know_ we hate mice."

"You're telling me that _roaches_ and _spiders_ don't bother you, but mice do?" I ask, slipping back under the covers, which have chilled considerably. I have to bury myself thoroughly and shake some heat into them.

"Yes. Mice are freaky, with their beady little eyes and gross, worm-like tails... _huh_..." Maui shudders. He picks up his hook, inspects it for any damage, and sets it against the wall. I track his every move hungrily, openly and admittedly ogling him when he bends over to rummage through the middle drawer of my nightstand. He pulls out a pair of briefs and a black wife-beater. "I'm gonna take a quick shower." He places both hands on either side of my body and leans forward, eyebrow cocked. "Care to join me?"

I tap my chin, pretending to ponder the idea for far longer than necessary. His fingers begin to twitch, his smirk slipping as with each passing second his confidence wavers.

"Mm, okay," I say. "But we have to-"

Maui, a man of selective hearing, flings the comforter off of my body at the word "okay" and scoops me up into his arms, making a mad dash for the door. Warring off giggles, I swat at his shoulder and flail my legs.

"Wait, wait, wait, ya big, horny oaf!" I hiss. When he still doesn't listen, I claw his ear, curling my nails deep into his earlobe. He squeals, skidding to a stop in front of my door. "We have to be quiet," I whisper, placing a finger to my lips. "Elaine and Richard are right next door, and I don't know if your loud-ass woke Dad. He doesn't like the idea of you sleeping in my room, you know - the last thing we want to do is piss him off. He'll make damn sure you sleep in the attic."

Maui presses his lips into a hard line. He glances down at Mini-Maui, who shrugs and waves a hand dismissively, as if to say, "Whatever, dude. Do what you want, I can't stop you."

"Yeah, okay. You're probably right." Maui nods. "It _would_ be pretty embarrassing for your family to overhear something... _indecent_." His voices dips provocatively, and he pecks my lips once more before trailing the edge of my jaw. Of my own volition, I let my head slump back, moaning softly as he kisses the spot behind my ear. "Moment of truth, Frowny. If you make a noise, I might have to punish you."

I open my eyes. "Wait, wha-"

He presses his lips to my neck, and I have to bite my lip hard to keep from laughing as he blows a raspberry into my skin.

" _Ah, Maui_ -" I yell, only to slap a hand over my mouth.

"Uh oh. _That_ wasn't very quiet." Maui wriggles his eyebrows, placing a hand on the doorknob. "Well, now that everyone knows I'm here...shall we continue?"

~*~

As I knew he would be, Dad is pissed.

In the middle of making breakfast - pancakes, turkey bacon, eggs, fruit cocktails, the whole she-bang - he enters the kitchen. His hair flares up in stiff, pointed spikes; his cheeks sag, the blue pockets under his eyes telling of insufficient sleep. Without saying a word to either one of us, he fixes himself a cup of coffee, slowly stirs in his coconut oil and ghee, and leaves.

But we're not out of the woods yet. Before Maui and I have a chance to discuss what just occurred and figure out a plan to rectify it, Dad calls from his office, "Maui? A word, son."

Maui pales. Untying his apron, he asks me, "On a scale of one to ten, how much trouble am I in if he calls me 'son'?"

"Hmm...an eleven, maybe?" I grab the apron from him and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Good luck."

"Gee, thanks." Sucking in a deep breath, Maui rounds his shoulders and exits the kitchen. I watch his back as he skirts around the island, crosses the foyer, and disappears around the staircase.

In a low voice, I hear my father ask him to close the door and take a seat. Once the door is closed, I set down the bowl of pancake mix, turn off the burner on the stove, and tip-toe closer. I wrap my hands around the cool banister and hold my breath, catching only bits and pieces of their hushed conversation. Dad knows I'm probably eavesdropping, so he's set his voice at a harsh whisper.

"...in my house, under my roof...need to respect my wishes..." I can picture Dad jabbing a frantic finger at Maui, his eyes glinting red. He's usually a fairly even-tempered guy, but when he gets mad, like, really effing livid, it's time to start running, 'cause the bombs could drop at any second. "You understand, son? ...tolerate zero hanky-panky in this house..."

...all right.

What the fuck, never mind. When Dad gets mad, he turns into an eighty-year-old geezer who uses weird idioms like "hanky panky" to refer to sex, because shame on you if you use such a sinful word.

I chomp down on my finger, unsure whether to laugh or groan because, God, talk about cringe. Maui chokes, too, no doubt having the same reaction as me.

"Oh, goodness. What happened now?"

Elaine's voice startles me. I rip my hands away from the banister and place them behind my back. As if it'll make me look any less guilty. Elaine shuffles down the stairs, bundled in a heavy quilt, her fuzzy bunny slippers making light _whumpf_ noises against the wood.

Compared to last night, she seems leagues better. The color has returned to her cheeks, but her nose is still raw and runny, and her eyes are watering. I can only imagine how Richard must look. Poor guy was absolutely miserable last night: His cough didn't let up until almost midnight.

Elaine raises her chin and asks, "Trouble in paradise already?"

I sigh. "You could say that. Dad's ripping Maui a new one for sleeping in my room."

"Ugh, _seriously_?" Elaine huffs down the remaining steps and glares at the door. "Jesus, you're a grown ass woman. You should be able to do whatever the fuck you want. Hell, when Richard and I started dating, we did a helluva lot more than just sleep together in the same bed. If anyone needs a lecture, it's Richard. That boy is a jack rabbit, if you know what I mean."

I scrunch my nose. Breakfast has lost it's appeal. "Yeah, I didn't need to know that, Elaine."

Elaine snorts and extends an arm, the quilt bunched between her fingers. I nestle into her side and loop my arms around her waist. Her body burns with fever. She presses her cheek into my cool forehead, and I grimace. It's uncomfortable as all Hell, and in a matter of seconds a sticky sweat pastes my back, but I screw up my lip and try not to complain.

Elaine can have one of two personalities when she's sick: Cute and affectionate, or fussy and aggressive. Right now, she's tip-toeing on the boundary line. The last thing I want to do is agitate her by denying her a hug. ('Cause when she's sick, denying her a hug is the equivalent of sibling disownment.)

Together, we lumber toward the kitchen, making small talk about her business endeavors - she's currently working as a free-lance editor and transcriptionist, but she really wants to pursue either a job in anthropology or a degree in teaching - Richard's latest pieces, and my decision to pull out Mom's decorations. Elaine thinks it's awesome that I'm doing this. She says that for years she thought about convincing Dad to help her bring them out, but each time she worked up enough courage to do it, Mom's memory prevailed.

"She would be so proud of you," Elaine says, releasing me so I can ~~breathe~~ continue working on breakfast. It's the same sentiment that my father gave me, and once more I have no idea how to respond. My eyes burn, and I turn my cheek so she can't see and mumble out a pathetic, "I guess."

She's scavenging the fridge for some orange juice when Maui returns, red-faced and pouty. Elaine peers at him over her shoulder, grumbles out a hello, and uncaps the carton of orange juice. She takes a swig, closes the fridge, and says, "I'm gonna go take a nap."

"You _just_ woke up."

"So? Rest is the best remedy for the flu." She throws back another sip of orange juice like a shot. "Don't make too much. Richard's been throwing up all morning, and my appetite is MIA. Oh, and Maui?" He picks his head up. "Fight the patriarchy. Ignore my father and snog the shit outta my sister. She needs it. I've had it up to here with all the drunken texts she sends me when you're away, saying how lonely she is and how badly she wishes that you would come back and-"

"Good _night_ , Elaine!"

I raise my spatula over my head like a tomahawk, ready to chuck it at her should she open her mouth. She rolls her eyes, belches, and teeters away, hacking and spewing.

Body hot, I glance at Maui. He coughs into his fist and averts his eyes. I return to the stove and pour another batch of pancakes onto the skillet.

"So?"

"' _So_ '?"

I roll my eyes. "How did the talk with my father go?"

"Oh. That." Maui rubs the back of his neck. "It... _went_ , about as well as to be expected. I'd rather not talk about it."

"Is he gonna make you sleep-" I gasp dramatically. "- _in the attic_?"

"Oh, that's it, I'm gonna..." Maui doesn't finish his threat and lunges around the island. I grab the bowl of pancake mix, dip my hand inside, and smear a fat, gooey glob across his wide nose. His face blanks as he processes this. Then, in a low rumble, he says, "I love you, Frowny. But it's time for you to die."

The next batch of pancakes burn, but it doesn't matter. Maui and I are the only ones who eat breakfast that morning.

~*~

Two hours, another shower ( _separately_ , this time), and a thorough cleansing of the kitchen later, we find ourselves strewn about the house, stringing up lights and paper snowflakes made out of glittery gold and pale blue card stock.

Dad did a majority of the decorating last night while I was tending to Richard and Elaine, and the living room and foyer are finished.

Beds of cotton cover nearly every flat surface, surrounding statues of Christmas trees and shimmering reindeer no larger than my forearm. The humidifier pumps out a peppermint-laced steam, the light oscillating from red to green to gold. The mantel has been cleared of picture frames and now holds elegant silver candlesticks, ornaments, a verdant garland speckled with stems of holly berries and pine cones, and our stockings.

Mom's larger statues have found their respective positions around the house. Snow miser and Rudolph sit on either side of the fireplace, extremities repaired. From a distance, you can hardly tell that they were broken.

Dad is working on the staircase, wrapping reels of plaid ribbon around the banister and the end post; Elaine is trying (and failing miserably) to make a wreath like the one I showed her; Richard is sketching the rest of us while we work, capturing the moment in his own special way; and Maui is helping me arrange a vase of faux poinsettias when the idea comes to me.

"Hey, why don't we throw a party?"

Elaine jerks her head up, eyes brightening. "That's a great idea," she says, pushing the wreath aside. It slumps over the edge of the table, a sad, pathetic mesh of ribbon and tassel. "So long as _I_ get to bake the cookies."

"I was thinking we could do, like, a cake this year. You always hear about Christmas cookies in baking shows and movies; Christmas _cakes_ are so underrepresented."

"No, fuck your cake, were baking cookies." Elaine stands and cups her mouth with a hand. "Daddy! McKenna is on a roll this year. You _have_ to say yes."

Dad rips the piece of ribbon he's fastening around the end post and hums. It's practically torture waiting for him to tie it into a petite, lopsided bow. I'll have to go back and fix it later when he isn't looking.

"Sure. Why not?"

Elaine squeals delightedly. "Yay! I'll start looking for cute cookie recipes A-S-A-P." She gushes some more, gives Richard a sloppy kiss on the cheek - _coughs_ directly into his ear - and books it up the stairs.

Maui hands me another poinsettia. "Who are you thinking of inviting?" He asks.

I open my mouth to ramble off an immediate list of people, but at the top of the list is Maluhia. There's no way on earth she would be able to make it: The trip would take her little over a week, and she would be dead on her feet as soon as she got here. Plus, I can't just ask her to drop all of her Chiefly duties to attend a _party_. I already know what she would say:

"I would love to, mumua itiiti, but I must remain here with my people. My duty it to them first; I hope you understand."

I deflate. Maui notices but says nothing, instead opting for a quick, comforting side hug.

"Well, I was thinking about inviting only a handful of people. Close friends and whatnot. Rayne and Corinne, Matthias and Abdul...Dominic." I whisper the last name, and Maui stiffens. The reaction from Dad is also immediate.

"He won't come," he says, tone firm. "You can try, sweetheart, but he won't come."

Elaine scampers down the stairs, juggling a stack of magazines in her arms. She sets them on the table with a mighty thump and begins sifting through them, searching for any that have to do with Christmas. While she raves over different recipes, and Dad starts rambling off ideas to anyone who will listen, I grab my phone and begin making calls.

~*~

I'd fought, tooth and nail, to keep Rayne from getting my number. I thought I'd succeeded after we all parted ways, but a few days later I started receiving messages and phone calls from an unknown number. I knew it was Rayne at the first use of the unicorn emoji. She said that Corinne had given her my number, no doubt just to spite me. It's been almost two years and I'm still stewing over it.

I call Rayne first and she answers on the second ring.

"Hey, hey, girl! Ohmigosh, I can't believe you're calling me today, I was _just_ thinking about you! What a coincidence, amiright? So, I was thinking that maybe we could get together and go out to eat, or see a movie, or go shopping, because holy crap do I miss you-"

_Yeah, I sure as shit don't miss you. Why am I inviting you again?_

In the background, someone groans. Rayne cries out in protest as the phone is removed from her hand, and I hear, " _Jesus_ , do you ever stop talking? Hello?"

It's Corinne.

"Ugh...hi?"

I don't mean for it to come out as a question, but I can't help it. I'm genuinely shocked. Of all of us, Corinne is the _last_ person I would expect to (willingly) hang out with Rayne.

"Oh, hey, Wolford. What's up?"

"I was just calling to see if you guys wanted to come to the Christmas party we're throwing at our house."

Corinne relays the information to Rayne, who screams, "YAS, YAS, YAAAAASSSS."

"I think it's a yes," Corinne says. "What day and what time?"

"Christmas Eve. I dunno what time yet. Whenever you guys want to show up, I guess."

"Cool. All right. We'll-"

"We will _be there_ , girl!" Rayne snatches the phone away and starts screaming some more, some nonsensical babble shit that sounds completely alien to me. I'm just about to cut her off when she says, "Oh, wait, wait, you know what we should do? We should do _Secret Santa's_! We'll draw names from a hat - well, _I_ will, if that's all right with you gals - and whoever we get, we have to buy a present for! Doesn't that sound exciting? 'Cause it's _soooo_ exciting!"

It actually doesn't sound like a bad idea.

The only problem: I haven't even done _any_ Christmas shopping yet. Not even for Elaine. I can only imagine how crazy the stores will be, especially at this time of the month.

But, panic aside, I say, "You know what? Fuck it, why not? Let's do it. You draw names."

"Yayayayay, okay. Who all is going to be there?"

I give her the list of names, including myself, Maui, Elaine, Richard, and Dad. There's a heavy silence on their side, and I have to check and see if the call was dropped.

In a sober voice, Rayne says, "Ugh, I dunno how to tell you this, McKenna, but...Abdul and Matthias are on a cruise right now."

My scalp prickles. "What?"

"Yeah, they left this morning," Corinne adds. "I'm not sure when they're supposed to be back. Could be a few days, could be a few weeks. It's some sort of European tour or whatever, so who knows, really."

"We can call them and let them know if you want," Rayne suggests. "If they can make it, I'm sure they would love to come."

I fold my arm over my chest, squeezing my bicep. My nails dig into my skin, but I hardly register any pain. "Yeah. Please. That'd be great. I'll, uhm...I'll see you guys later."

I hang up before Rayne can squeeze in another word.

~*~

Although Rayne said she would take care of it, I call Abdul and Matthias next. Both of their phones go straight to voicemail, so I leave them a message. I try to keep my voice from sounding too whiny, but anyone with half a brain can tell I'm disappointed.

I call Dominic next, not really sure what to expect with him.

The phone rings...and rings...and rings...

At the last minute, Dominic answers. He doesn't speak for a few seconds, and I barely hear him when he calls my name.

"McKenna?"

"H-hey, Dominic." My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "Sorry, ugh...did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No, no, I...no." Dominic seems just as flustered as I am. "What is it, McKenna? What do you want?"

"I...we're throwing a party Christmas Eve. Do you want to come?"

More silence. Then, in a strained voice, "McKenna...I'm sorry, but...I _can't_."

I don't ask any questions; I'm used to this by now...or at the very least I should be. We stay connected for a few heartbeats, neither one of us able to say a word. Only when it becomes unbearable - when the memory of him becomes too painful to ignore - do I hang up the phone.


	3. December 15th

The weather today is warm and fair — perfect, says Dad, energy renewed and grudges forgotten, for exterior decorating.

After weeks of dreary gray and overcast skies, the gaudy sunlight returns, slanting across the rooftops and rousing steam from the white grounds of the yard. The snow is now slush, easily parted by a pair of sturdy legs and ten times slippery. Icicles suspended from the house eaves thaw rapidly, gushing droplets of water onto an already-slick porch. Twice I almost slipped and busted my ass trying to carry a hot drink out to Dad or Maui; I eventually caught a clue and started coming out through the garage.

In the past hour, Dad and Maui have made quite a bit of headway. The big red letters and strobe lights have been evenly spaced across the yard, and Santa, his sleigh and his reindeer bound along the edge of the driveway. It’s oddly pleasing to see their dorky, plastic hides again.

Maui is helping Dad wrap lights around the banister of the porch. His hair is pulled into a bun atop his head, and his gloved hands tremble slightly as he unwinds more of the cord for Dad. After quite a bit of arguing, I managed to coax him into my grandfathers’ old, tawny brown chore coat and denim jeans. They’re a bit snug, especially around the hips and shoulders — grandfather was a big man, but not nearly as big as Maui — but they provide great insulation.

They’re speaking in low voices. No doubt discussing the argument they had yesterday. It seems to be going fairly well: Dad is grinning at Maui again, and Maui, in turn, looks extremely relieved.

I watch them a moment, arms wrapped around myself, hands bunched under my armpits. Smiling contentedly.

“Wow. You boys are making some excellent progress.”

Maui and Dad start at the sound of my voice. Dad beams and greets me with a cheery, “Ah, McKenna! How’re things looking inside?”

“Good. We’re finished with the front room, and Elaine and Richard are helping me work on the kitchen and breakfast nook. I’m going to need to call Ideal Christmas Trees, though. Do you know where Mom’s phone book is?”

Mom’s “phone book” is actually a photo album filled with scrapes of paper and pictures with phone numbers on them. A lot of the numbers are companies Mom used to rely on in times of need, for catering, tree servicing, automobile detailing — you name it, it’s in there. Most of the numbers are old friends and acquaintances she made that have been forgotten by the rest of us. And quite a bit of the phone numbers (and pictures) are of old boyfriends, or belong to men (and I think even a few women) looking for one-night-stands once upon a time.

Mom was a player back in the day.

Instead of relying on a phone book, we relied on her album. But, as you know, it’s been years since I last saw it.

And you’re probably wondering, “McKenna, why don’t you just look it up on your smart phone, huehuehueh.” I could do that, but then I would have to speak with a Regular Joe working at Ideal Christmas Trees. Whereas if I had Mom’s phone book, I could make a direct call to the manager, who adored my mother so much that he always gave her premium discounts on their best trees.

The manager adored her so much he even came to her funeral. Promised to give us a free Christmas tree for life in honor of her memory, which doesn’t sound like much until you remember that Christmas was Mom’s favorite part of existence.

Dad grumbles, head dipping forward and rolling slowly back. He scratches his capped head and says, “Check my office. Bottom right drawer.”

I grin. “Thanks, Daddy.” I start to head back inside, but I stop. I ask, “What else do you have left to work on out here, anyway?”

“Oh, we’re gonna finish off the porch and then head up to the roof.” Dad says without looking at me. “Maui thinks we should do solid colors, but I’m thinking multi. What do you think, sweetheart?”

I shrug. “Why not both?”

“Because I…well…” Dad shares a brief exchange with Maui and says, “Hey, you know, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Get the multicolored lights out of the garage, would you, son?”

“You got it, sir,” Maui says, saluting. He tromps down the porch steps, heel sliding on the last step, snow boots crunching a path toward the garage. I walk beside him, waiting until we’re out of Dad’s sight to address him.

“So, you guys are getting along now?”

Maui nods. “Yeah. He was angry, rightfully so. So I let him stew in it for a while. But I won’t lie and say I wasn’t beginning to fear he might never forgive me. He’s a stubborn as the rest of you Wolford’s.”

“Wouldn’t you be, too, if it was your daughter?”

“Oh, I would be _livid_.” Maui shakes his head and tears open the box that says “multi colored lights” on the top. He pulls out a tangled mass of green and continues, “If it was our daughter, I don't think I would have been so lenient. I would have kicked his ass and buried him in the back yard, or fed him to the neighbors’ dog. I—”

The shock of Maui’s words hits us at the same time. He pinches his lips together and clears his throat. We devolve into shy, embarrassed kids, coughing and mumbling and scratching various parts of our body — all the while unable to look at each other.

 _Our_ daughter.

I’m not going crazy. Maui actually just said that.

We’d talked only once before about what we wanted our future together to look like. In our vision, there was a mansion, a Lamborghini Veneno for him and a 1957 Plymouth Savoy for me, a dog or two — but _never_ any children. Even jokingly, the idea always turned either one or both of us off.

But now…

“I, ugh…” My heart thunders in my ears. I walk backwards toward the door. “I’d, uhm, better go inside and, ugh…do that thing, you know? That, uhm, super important… _thing_.”

“Y-yeah, go ahead,” Maui says, backing away too. He gnarls the lights further between his hands. “I’ll, ugh…I’ll see you in a little bit, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t…don’t freeze.”

And because there’s nothing either one of us can say to somehow amend this situation, I pivot on my heel and book it toward Dad’s office.

~*~

Maui’s words are still jumbling around in my head when I return to the kitchen, holding Mom’s phone book close to my chest.

Elaine and Richard are lost in their own little worlds, oblivious to my turmoil. Elaine is balancing decorating the breakfast nook and searching her magazines for recipes, jotting down ones that seem intriguing on a notepad and then hustling toward the window to continue stringing up card stock snowflakes. (Mom made a whole lot of those, apparently.) Richard is drawing, left brow knotted in concentration. He obviously doesn’t appreciate what he’s drawing because he tears the sheet from the book and crumples it up.

In an attempt to do away with the awkwardness still shocking my system, I tease, “Artist’s block again, Richie?”

Richard’s spine straightens, and he slaps the sketchbook shut. Cheeks tinged pink, he stands and says, “Sort of. I was trying my hand at, ugh…well, it’s not important. You wouldn’t care if I told you anyway.”

Though not intentional, his comment hurts me more than I thought it would. Am I really that dismissive of his skill? I set Mom’s phone book on the island. “That’s not true. I…you’re really talented, Richard. And I’m sorry if I haven’t told you that before, or made you think otherwise. So…would you show me, please?”

The sincerity in my words surprises all of us. I don’t usually speak in sentimental truths, and tend to prefer half-truths dipped in just enough sarcasm to piss the other person off. Call it what you will, a defense mechanism or just plain sadistic, but I can hardly remember a time when I complimented someone on their craft and meant it. No sarcastic strings attached.

Richard is lost for a moment, unsure whether to give me the crumpled sheet of paper or stuff it in his back pocket. But some thought occurs to him, something that wins him over. He grabs his sketchbook, tucks it under his arm, says, “I, ugh, sorry, but, I need to go to the bathroom,” and bolts.

I look to Elaine, confused, hoping for an explanation. She just shrugs and continues flipping through her magazine. I swipe Mom’s phone book off the island and join her at the table. Elaine gazes fondly at the album.

“I never thought I’d see that stupid book again. May I?” She gestures to the book, and I slide it toward her. She opens up to a random page and smiles, fingers stroking the rims of the pictures there. The page may not be so random, because one picture includes an infant Elaine. “It never gets easier, does it?” She swallows thickly. Sniffles loudly, mucus crackling in the back of her throat. “Missing her?”

I fold my arms. “No, not really.”

Elaine closes the book. “Do you remember that one Christmas when she made snickerdoodles? The ones that had Hershey kisses sitting in the middle of them?”

“Yeah, I do. Those were _amazing_.”

“I’ve tried baking them countless times, using one recipe after another, but…no matter how hard I try, I can never get them to taste the same way hers did.” Elaine sighs. “Maybe it’s all in my head. I don’t know. She just…had a way of making mediocre things absolutely remarkable. You know, sometimes I think—”

There’s a muffled clatter against the window, and Elaine and I both start as Dad’s figure casts a shadow across the table. Eyes shaded under the brim of his cap, he climbs the rungs of the ladder, toting a staple gun in his hand and the multicolored lights around his torso, like a harness. Maui climbs after him, carrying the rest of the lights. The sight of him reminds me of what took place in the garage, and I bore a hole into the middle of the table, face hot.

Once they’re out of sight, and their hefty footsteps pound overhead, I turn to Elaine. “What were you going to say?”

“What?” Elaine asks, then shakes her head. “Oh, never mind. Forget it, it’s nothing.”

It’s not “nothing,” but I don’t press her any further. We bury ourselves in our work, a comfortable silence washing over the kitchen. From the roof, I can hear the muffled sounds of Dad and Maui’s footsteps, and the fast chunking of the stapler.

I search through the album, scanning the pictures and paper scraps in search of a familiar Christmas tree insignia, when I come across the picture of Elaine as an infant. Mom and some other woman, mysterious to me, stand in the middle of a gazebo, Elaine on her hip, beaming from ear to ear. A strand of hair wisps across her cheek and nose, obscuring one of her eyes. Even so, it’s clear that she’s happy.

Elaine, however, is not. Despite being bundled from head to toe, her face is scrunched up and reddened with anger. Her mouth is open in a soundless scream, eyes pinched tightly shut.

Somehow, while admiring the photo, Maui’s words lunge out, capturing my attention once again. I lift my chin, directing my words at Elaine.

“Hey, have you and Richard ever thought about having kids?”

If the topic is too out of left field, Elaine doesn’t let it show. If anything, her lack of a proper reaction tells that she’s probably been asked this question a multitudinous number of times. She’s quick to purse her lips and shake her head, and indignant left to right.

“Nuh-uh. _God_ , no. Richard knows _exactly_ how I feel about children; he’s on the same page, too, actually. _No kids_.”

“Okay, but…what if, _hypothetically_ , he happened to change his mind?” Elaine raises her eyes, fingers halting on the magazine. I lick my lips. “What if he came down here right now and told you he wanted to have a baby? Or…or if he started talking about your future daughter…o-or son?”

Elaine blinks slowly, muling it over. “Well,” she starts. “I don’t know, honestly. It’d be quite the shock, but…I’d have to consider it because he’s my husband and I love him. We’d have to sit down and talk it over, like, really talk it over. Having a baby is a major commitment. They eat up so much time and energy that could be put into investing in your relationship. Eventually we’d come to some sort of agreement and figure things out from there, I suppose. Why are you asking me this?”

Suddenly, I’m too shy to tell her the truth. I tap my fingers, knee bouncing. I chew my lower lip, running over the various excuses that come to mind — all of them dumb and inconceivable.

I meet Elaine’s eye. Something alights in them, and her lips part. The pages flutter free of her fingers, and she reaches across the table around the same time I spring out of my chair. I know what she’s thinking — I can see it in her eyes — and at the exact moment she shrieks, “Are you pregnant?!” I shout, “It’s not what you think!”

And then the sky falls.

Literally, it falls: There’s a mighty boom that shakes the house, rattles the rafters and causes the fans to start swinging. Elaine and I throw our arms around each other, fearing that it might be some sort of earthquake.

But it’s only the one single occurrence.

We strain our ears, hearts racing, and hear a low, constant hissing noise, like chalk against concrete, moving over our heads toward the front of the house—

Elaine screams. My jaw falls open but nothing comes out.

Through the open windows in the front room, we watch, horrified, as our fathers’ limp body comes tumbling down.

~*~

I don’t remember telling Elaine to call 911, nor do I remember running outside to help Maui dig my father out of the snow. I don’t remember dragging him up the porch steps, his head slumped, chin at his chest. I don’t remember ordering Richard to grab a chair, or ripping off Dad’s jacket and shirt.

But I _do_ remember the awkward, unnatural jutting of his collarbone and the prominent dislocation of his shoulder. The veins of red bursting under the surface of his swelling skin. The hard bump forming on his temple, and the thin line of blood crawling down his jaw and dripping onto his chest.

I remember feeling strangely calm as I cleaned Dad’s head with a warm cloth and held his hand, urging him to tell me his name, his age, who his children were, just to see if he had any sort of coherence.

And more than anything, I remember time moving at a sloths’ crawl while we waited for the EMTs to arrive. It seemed that we would be here forever, trapped in this particular moment in time, helpless to aid my father further out of fear that we might increase his pain.

When they finally did show up, Maui gripped me by the shoulders and tugged me free from my father. I let him. We watched the EMTs check his vitals — one of them broke away and tried to ask me some questions, but Maui placed himself in front of me and took over — and lift him up onto a gurney. We watched them wheel him out to the ambulance. I heard the dull jingling of Elaine’s keychain. Maui’s face lowered and leveled with mine, and his lips moved and his eyes blinked. I nodded, although I’m not sure what, exactly, I was agreeing to.

Richard locked the front door, and we piled into Elaine’s car. Maui helped me buckle in and then threw his arms around me, trying to coax me out of my head.

But I was stuck, rewinding the image of Dad falling off the roof over and over again.

Stuck in my thoughts, discombobulated and exaggerated, upping the severity of the situation. I knew that my father was fine, would be fine, but my thoughts kept pulling toward the dark and malicious — kept tugging me to that same dark place I’d visited after Mom died, which whispered lies that did nothing but ramp up my anxiety. After she’d died, I immediately started picturing the holidays without her.

And even though I knew that _Dad was going to be fine_ , I started imagining the holidays without _him_.

I thought about it so long and so hard that my head started to ache. At some point, I closed my eyes, nuzzled my face into Maui’s warm neck, and fell asleep.

~*~

Dad is going to have to stay in the hospital overnight.

He broke his collarbone and fractured his humerus in the fall, and has a mild concussion. The bump on his head came either as a result of hitting the ground, or knocking it against the shingles of the house. Either way, they want to hold him for the next twenty-four hours to make sure his condition remains stable.

Maui says that it happened in a blink: My father was there, stapling lights and whistling gaily, and then he was gone, halfway down the rooftop before Maui could react. It was an accident, nothing more and nothing less.

Elaine and Richard offer to stay overnight, but they’re still recovering, so I tell them to go home and relax; I'll stay with Dad and call them in the morning when he's ready to be discharged. Maui joins them, but returns less than twenty minutes later by himself. He has a bag of spare clothes, our toothbrushes, my laptop, and my favorite movie, _My Cousin Vinny_.

We curl up together on the sofa and watch _My Cousin Vinny_ until we fall asleep.


	4. December 16th

I wake up several times throughout the night, restless and achy and flushed. The memories of the last few hours keep crashing down on me, chipping away at my mantle and reverting me to the panicked, helpless little girl I used to be. Once or twice a tear pinches out of the corner of my eye, but I'm quick to reprimand myself.

_It's not the end of the world. Dad is in good hands now; he's going to make a speedy recovery and be perfectly fine._

He _has_ to.

At around five, I finally give up the ghost. I'm too fidgety to sleep; I need to find something to occupy my thoughts. Slowly, so not to disturb Maui, I rise off the sofa - or, more accurately, I rise off of Maui's stomach, because this sofa is too damned small - and grab my laptop. I don't want to leave the room in case Maui wakes up or something happens to my father, and I'm not too thrilled at the prospect of wandering around a hospital, so I lock myself in the bathroom. The toilet doesn't have a seat cover so I sit on the floor.

For longer than I intend to, I stare at the cursor on my screen, unsure why I even came in here or what it is I even want to do. I will my fingers to move. I sniffle and wipe my nose. Without really thinking about it, I search for snickerdoodle recipes, because it's the most vivid conversation I remember Elaine and I having right before-

I curl my fingers and push my nails into my palm.

This is ridiculous. My behavior is ridiculous. And you'd think that my self-awareness would drive me to put an end to it, but it doesn't - and _that_ makes me feel shittier.

I can't help thinking that I'm at fault for all of this. If I hadn't recommended that we bring out the decorations, Dad never would have fallen off the roof. In my selfish pursuit of a _feeling_ , he got hurt. How am I not to blame? It would have been best for everyone if I...

There's a soft rap on the door. A mumble of intelligible words in Maui's low rumble. I close the laptop, breathe in and out to calm myself down, and unlock the door. I fix my eyes on the wasabi green floor, an inch away from the tips of his sneakers.

"Frowny," Maui whispers sternly. "What are you doing in the bathroom?"

I shrug and reply in a flippant tone, still not looking at him, "Taking a shit, what else?"

He's scowling. I don't have to see his face to know that. He crosses his arms and dips his head. In my ear, he whispers, "Don't do this to me."

"Do _what_?"

"Don't shut down on me. You're scared and wrapped up in a web of thoughts, and I get it, but you have to - you _need_ to _look_ at me." Then, when I don't comply, in a whimper, " _Please_ , McKenna."

My breath shudders, my eyes hot and itchy as I fight back tears. I raise my head and jut my chin. My jaw is sore from grinding my teeth. Meeting his gaze is a declaration of surrender - and I _hate_ it. He sighs, relieved, and cups my elbow, drawing me in for a hug. I lean into him, cheek to his heart. He slips the laptop free of my hands, sets it aside somewhere, and pins me to his body. An arm around my waist, a hand at the base of my neck.

"Thank you," he says. "Now, please, tell me...what are you doing in the bathroom?"

"... _thinking_."

"About what?"

I groan and close my eyes.

Admitting the truth - letting Maui inside my head - is _hard_ , perhaps one of the most painful things I've ever had to do. But I do it, somehow. I tell him about the irrational fears and immense guilt plaguing my mind. He lets me vent and doesn't interject once, though the more I talk, the more he chews his bottom lip. When I'm finished, I lay there, ankles throbbing from standing in this awkward Michael-Jackson-anti-gravity lean, waiting for him to rip apart my anxieties and spit some hardcore truths.

It's terrifying, being this vulnerable in front of another human being, but I get why it's encouraged: It makes you feel loads better after everything is said and done. Your thoughts are no longer trapped inside your headspace, they're just _out_. And it feels _good_ to have them out.

Sure, the terror that comes afterwards is an entirely different animal because who knows how the other person is going to respond? But at least you can say that you were honest, after hours, days, or months of not being honest.

And it seems I'm not the only one who thinks this way: I pull back, just enough to get a good look at Maui's face, and find a soft, genuine smile and two intensely brown eyes that _understand_.

"You _are_ aware that everything you just said to me is completely ridiculous, right?"

But this _is_ still Maui, and like it or not he can be just like me - hiding his sincerity behind a mask of sarcasm and wit. It's how people like us deal.

Damned if it's right, damned if it's wrong.

" _Yes_ ," I grumble, smacking him firmly on the arm. "I am _aware_."

"No, I don't think you are. You're _blaming_ yourself for this? You weren't even there when it happened!"

"But-"

"Ah-bugh-mm- _no_." He pinches my lips together and shakes his head. " _No_ buts. Hear me out. You could blame yourself if you'd been up there and accidentally pushed him off. I could totally get behind that kind of guilt. But _this_ is just...nonsensical. And if you think I'm going to sit back and pander to it and make you feel all warm and cozy inside, then think again." He releases my mouth and grabs my shoulders, turning me around to face my father, still zonked out in bed. "That man was _singing_ before he fell. Before we even climbed onto the roof, he was going on and on about how proud he was that you stepped up and made this decision. He said it took a lot of bravery that _he_ didn't have because, you know this as well as I do, he wouldn't have dared to do any of this unless you said something.

"No one is to blame for what happened. If you want to blame anyone, blame me. I should have been there to catch him, and I wasn't." The expression on my face sours at his words, but he trucks along. "The point is, you couldn't have known this would happen. It was an accident. You can't let this take away from what you're trying to accomplish here. You still want to celebrate the holidays, right?"

I nod.

"And you still want to pay homage to your mother...right?"

My bottom lip wobbles. I nod again.

"Then keep doing what you're doing," Maui says, curving a finger under my chin. "Your father will still be there to celebrate Christmas with you and Elaine. He isn't going anywhere - if he tries, I'll bring him back, kicking and screaming if I have to."

"I appreciate that, son, but it won't be necessary."

Dad's words, gruff and somewhat slurred, startle us both. He grunts, jabbing an elbow into the bed to scoot himself up. I rush to his side and help him. He gazes at me fondly, cheeks hollow and pale with fatigue. Without his glasses, his head appears smaller, his eyes a bit more pronounced.

"I - I thought you were...how long have you been awake?" _How much did you hear?_ Is what I _really_ want to ask.

He grins. "Long enough to know that I've got some apologizing to do." His free arm stretches forward, fingers skimming my cheek. I trap his hand in mine and close my eyes. Don't cry, I think to myself. Do not... "I'm so sorry for scaring you, McKenna. I...honestly can't remember how it happened. It's a blur. But Maui was right about one thing: I was _happy_. Putting out those decorations in the yard, stapling lights to the house...I've _missed_ that, more than you know. _This_..." He gestures to himself. "This is just a minor setback, sweetheart. I'll be all right; and as soon as I'm feeling up to it, I'll get back to word to help you finish decorating the house."

I open my mouth to protest, but he adds quickly, " _Not_ outside, I know. I'll have Maui, here, finish the roof. He watched me work, he knows how to do it."

Maui stuffs his hands in his pockets and takes a step forward. Dad removes his hand from my face and holds it out. Maui clasps his meaty fist around Dad's and says, "You can count on me, Mr. Wolford." Then, turning his head, he winks at me. My chest squeezes, and I smile back.

The nurse, a portly middle-aged black woman with one of the most mesmerizing laughs I've ever heard, breaks up the moment. She grimaces and tells Dad that she's here to check up on him. Maui and I fade into the background quietly, returning to our spots on the stiff, uncomfortable sofa.

I watch my father laugh and engage in a light-hearted discourse with the woman, who is all but taken with him, and burn the image into my memory. It overwhelms the one of Dad falling off the roof, and snuffs out the crude visions of Christmases not yet had without him.

It was childish of me to worry so much. I know that. Dad was right: This is just a minor setback. We'll go home, take a few hours to decompress, and then dive right back into our work. Christmas will come, and things will be as they once were. This won't - _will no longer_ stand in the way of that.

So long as I have Dad, Elaine, and Maui...oh, and Richard, I suppose...everything will be all right.

~*~

Close to eight thirty, there’s a knock on the door. The scent of coffee, a heavenly escape from the stale antiseptic smell of the room, wafts into my nostrils the moment the handle clicks.

Elaine and Richard enter the room cautiously, their eyes wide and lips pressed into grim lines. At the sight of Dad, awake and healthy in bed, Elaine loses it. She devolves into a hysteric mess, practically painting Richard’s shirt in steaming hot coffee as she lunges across the room. She crumples in Dad’s arms, tears rushing down her face, babbling uncontrollably.

Dad and I exchange a glance. I was worried, sure, and still am to a small degree, but not to the point of falling apart like this. And I make a point to convey this in a brief roll of my eyes. Dad shrugs his good shoulder and rubs Elaine’s back, whispering softly.

I slide off the bed – I’d been enjoying an in-and-out nap curled up beside Dad – and make for the coffee. Maui beats me to it. He uncaps one of the mugs, dumps in four of the tiny cups of creamer, and hands it off to me. I smile appreciatively and cradle the warm mug between my hands. The caffeine purges my system, heightening my senses and waking me fully. Which is good – I’ve been feeling lethargic and icky all morning.

The twenty-four-hour watch period ends at noon, so we spend the next three and a half hours talking, laughing, and passing jokes back and forth. Elaine and I situate ourselves on either side of Dad; Elaine rests on the side of his injury, her body curved around the sling, monitoring her every move to make sure she doesn’t jostle or hurt him. Dad tells us stories about some of the craziest missions he’s been on for the museum – one of which involves a rosary, two Catholic nuns, and a seriously pissed off flock of geese – and we hoot and holler and kick up a strange kind of fuss.

The nurse has to poke her head in several times to make sure we’re all okay.

Maui tells some of his own stories as well, but they’re ones I’ve heard multiple times over, so I tune out. My eyelids grow heavier and heavier, the caffeine having given me a false sense of alertness before wearing me the fuck out. This awful sensation builds in my midsection, worsening with each passing minute. The joints in my legs ache, and a light sweat coats my back like a sticky paste.

At some point during Maui’s stories, I drift off, face buried in Dad’s pillow. I wake up after what feels like a few seconds to stark silence. I whip my head up so fast my neck twinges. Dad’s good hand cups my shoulder, easing me back down gently.

There’s a doctor in the room. She speaks in a deep, authoritative and heavily-accented voice, her vocabulary top-heavy with medical jargon that just doesn’t register. She’s going over treatment plans and medications, and I try to keep my eyes open and pay attention, but with Dad stroking my arm like this it’s nearly impossible. I fall asleep for a third time.

The next time I awake is in the car, pinched between Maui and Dad, who is now wearing a plain black shirt and jeans with a leather jacket slung over his shoulders. My head rests on Maui’s chest, his arm draped across the back of the seat. He’s in the middle of a conversation with Richard when he notices me watching him. His eyebrows furrow, and the hand resting on his knee comes up to sweep the hairs from my forehead. His knuckles are cool and soothing against my too-hot skin.

“Yeah, you were right, Elaine.” His voice is distant and echo-y, as if he were shouting down a long tunnel. The ringing in my ears builds and doesn’t strike me as unpleasant until it becomes resounding. Through the ringing and the tunnel, I snatch fragments of Maui’s words, “I think…coming down with…might be the flu…”

_The flu?_

Who has the flu? Me? Are they talking about me, am I sick?

It would definitely explain away a lot of what I’m feeling: The nausea, the achiness, the fatigue. But I don’t understand how this could have happened. I practically overdosed these last few days on Vitamin C to make sure I didn’t catch whatever strain Elaine and Richard had, and I drank plenty of orange juice…

Oh.

 _Oh_.

The carton of orange juice – the one Elaine drank from – _the one I finished off yesterday morning_.

I’d been so incredibly careful. Minded everything I did in the presence of Elaine and Richard. Took every step necessary to prevent it.

And all it took was a bout of blind ignorance to best me.

Groaning softly, I readjust myself in my seat and sprawl over Maui’s lap. I’ve got a killer headache threatening to split open the top of my skull, and the sharp, acrid taste of bile is forming at the back of my throat. Maui pets my hair and scratches my back, even hums a soft little song, which I appreciate greatly. It takes my mind off of the sickness smoldering inside me, gearing itself to wage a full-on war.

The drive home takes longer than expected – traffic on the highway, which kept us at a standstill for almost twenty full minutes – and before the car is even parked in the driveway, I crawl over Maui’s lap and throw open the door. I relish the cold, the snow bleeding through my pant legs and chilling straight to the bone. Everything about me is hot and stuffy and uncomfortable; I’m tempted to bury myself in the blanket of white and take a nap.

Maui doesn’t let me get that far. He scoops me off my numbed feet and carries me up the porch steps. Richard unlocks the door, opens it, and takes a step back to let Maui through first. It’s sixty-seven degrees in here, yet it feels like the inside of a furnace. I mumble and whine, but Maui is on a mission. He takes the steps two at a time, kicks open my bedroom door, and sets me on my bed.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, thrashing my arms and legs. “Go away. I’ve got work to do.”

“Not today, you don’t,” Maui retorts. “You’re going to spend the day in bed, sleeping.”

“Nooo. That’s…boring.” I can’t say if it’s the sickness or the fatigue causing me such delirium. All I know is that, in this moment, I find Maui an irritating butt-face. I push at him with my hands. He ignores me and unbuttons my jeans, sliding them down and off my legs. I don’t even have the courtesy of feeling embarrassed – I just start kicking. “Hee-eey! At least ask me out to dinner first, ya fuckin’ perv.”

“Oh, did you _want_ to sleep in cold, wet pants?” Maui snaps, but his lips curl in amusement. My reaction time is stunted and I’m unable to come back with anything clever or witty. So, I mumble out a handful of expletives and raise my arms.

“Fine,” I grumble. “Undress me like one of your French girls, Maui.”

Maui chokes back a laugh and works me out of my jacket. “Okay. It’s official. I kind of like Sick McKenna.”

“Sick McKenna likes yooou…but not right now. ‘Cause you’re bein’ annoying.” The bile in the back of my throat starts to burn, my stomach cramping. I don’t have to say much, just press my palms against my mouth, for Maui to catch my drift. He peers quickly over both shoulders and lunges for something on the other side of my bed. The sound of plastic ripping and Maui’s curse fills the air before my charcoal gray trash can is thrust under my chin.

While I belch and spew, Maui disappears from my room. No matter how annoying I might say he is, I want him here with me. So much so that, in mid-barf, I start to cry, big fat teardrops running down my nose. My stomach gives a final heave and comes up dry. I set the trash can on the floor and rush to my feet.

“Ma—”

The world tilts on its axis. A halo of black encircles my vision, pressing in. I throw my hands out, pivot my foot, try to land solidly on my bed—

Maui’s hand flattens against my spine, right as my knees give out and my hip knocks against the bedpost. Had I fallen, I would’ve crashed straight to the floor. He sits me back down. The rest of the ordeal passes by in a blink. In no time at all, I’m under the covers, dressed in a loose-fitting tank top and a pair of shorts. Something cold and wet rests across my forehead. Maui perches on the edge of the bed, asking, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Frowny?”

Barely conscious, I grumble out a reply, and it must be funny because Maui laughs.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll take care of the house. Everything will be ready by tomorrow. You just get some rest, all right? I’ll come back and check on you soon.”

“ _Mmm_ -kay.” Said in a partial sigh.

He laughs again. It’s the last thing I hear before I drift off.

For good this time.


	5. December 17th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried, folks. I really tried. 
> 
> I'm gonna finish this special, even though Christmas is well over and done with and it's the second day of 2019 (Happy New Year, by the way, I hope y'all had a great time), because I really want to see it through to the end. 
> 
> See you guys in the next one. Sorry. <3

The rest of the evening passed in a daze.

Maui returned to check on me once every hour. I don’t remember much from our interactions. I recall being fed ice cubes, having the cloth on my forehead soaked and reapplied, and saying something in a droll murmur that sent Maui spiraling into a fit of laughter.

Mostly I just slept. There wasn’t much I could do otherwise.

Only once did I rouse to the sound of Dad shouting and the treading of Maui’s boots on the roof. I yearned to be free of the hot, sweaty confines of my bed. I wanted to help them, or at the very least watch them work to make sure they were actually getting stuff done. But I knew that the minute I stepped foot through the door, Elaine would be on me like white on rice.

It’s ironic, now that I think about it, that when Elaine is sick, she has this expectation for others to just let her be, to go and do like normal at the risk of worsening her health — but _God forbid_ should _I_ get sick, I’m supposed to be doted on and resigned to my room for the next three days.

So, I rolled over. Kicked off the wet sheets, itchy and uncomfortable against my skin, and listened to Dad’s shouting, and Maui’s heavy treading, and somehow willed the yearning away long enough to dive back into the world of dreams.

By the time dawn rolled around, I was already feeling a teensy bit better — refreshed, but only somewhat. Pain settled in the back of my throat as if I’d gurgled splinters of glass. A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes. I could breathe fine and dandy out of my left nostril, which was dry as a bone, but my right nostril was plugged all to hell. The nausea hadn’t gone full away. In everything I did, I kept the trash can close at hand.

With Maui’s help, I was able to take a shower, brush my teeth, drag a brush through my hair, and dress into something a little less damp. Elaine changed my sheets while we were occupied, per Maui’s request — but I refused to go straight to bed.

I wanted to see the lights.

It was still dark outside, bleary and overcast, the sky a soft purple. The lights would look spectacular at this time — or so I’d convinced myself. But instead of shutting me down or reminding me, again, of my sickness — as if I could forget — Maui’s expression faltered. It was the first time I noticed, _truly_ noticed, how dejected he was — had been, all morning.

Panic ballooned in my gut. I flew down the stairs, snatched my coat off the hanger, and slipped on the closest pair of shoes by the door, which just so happened to be Elaine’s ugly hot pink UGGs. The wind struck me like an icy wall when I opened the door, jarring me briefly, but not enough to dissuade me from stepping onto the porch.

The now _bare_ porch.

Gone were the green cables roped around the banisters and up the posts; they now pooled in a heap atop the first step.

Maui said my name. Calmly.

Not a good sign.

_Never a good sign._

I threaded my already frozen fingers through the pile of lights for the plug. Once in my grasp, I hastened toward the nearest outlet in the side of the house and plugged them in. The results yielded the be-all, end-all of my biggest fears: The lights weren’t working.

The realization set in at that sickening moment: This was _really_ turning into a _National Lampoon_ disaster.

I asked Maui — and Dad, stirred awake by all the commotion — if a switch needed to be flipped in the laundry room, or anywhere else in the house. Piteous glances were all I received. They’d tried all they could think of and nothing had worked. The lights hadn’t been used in almost fourteen years; we should have anticipated beforehand that this would happen.

By some grace of God, the strobe lights worked. They needed new batteries, because _duh_ , but they emitted bright, powerful beams that speckled the house in Grinch green and apple red. I had to be thankful for that much.

Maui and Dad promised to head to the nearest Home Depot later in the morning to buy some more lights.

“Breathe, sweetness,” Maui assured me with a ruffle of my hair. “We’ll get new lights and have them strung up before Christmas. You can count on us.”

It was all I needed to hear from him, and more, to feel better.

Dawn came and went, and daybreak cast the once indigo sky in pale gold and ocher. Maui and I watched the sunrise together, dozing listlessly in each others arms, and at 10:00am Dad clapped him on the shoulder and told him it was time to go. He pecked my forehead, mumbled another promise into my hair, and left me. I sat on the couch long after they’d gone and waited, undecided on whether I should go back to sleep or find something to decorate. Eventually, I was able to make up my mind.

Now, seated at the island with a glass of warm milk and two Vitamin C tablets for breakfast, I open up Mom’s phone book and riffle through the pages for the Ideal Christmas Trees business card. I find it wedged between a polaroid photograph of Mom with the manager — a light-skinned man with a diminutive stature, pearly white teeth and pocked cheeks — and a picture of me as a newborn, in the arms of an unfamiliar woman. She’s wearing scrubs, her fierce red curls wrangled into a knotted bun at the base of her neck. Her name, as well as her phone number, is written in a flowy cursive, a “Ms. Martha J.”

I recognize her then as the doctor who delivered me and Elaine. Mom used to talk about her in such high esteem. Of all the people in this phone book, I think she would have wanted us to remain in contact with Ms. Martha J. the most.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I dial the number on the business card. The phone rings for a full minute. I’m beginning to lose hope when, suddenly, to my wondering ears I hear a click, and then an accusatory, “Yes, ugh, hello, who is this?”

“U-uhm, hello,” I respond lamely. Phone calls have always been nerve-wracking to me. The thought of having a conversation with another person and not being able to see them while I’m talking has always freaked me out. But I wrestle that fear, too, and push on. “You probably don’t remember me, but my name is McKenna Wolford? You knew my mom, ugh, Tiff—”

“Ah, yes, yes, Miss Wolford! Yes, I remember you, dear, yes.” The man — Mr. Pereyra — sounds positively elated. As if he’d been waiting his entire life for this one phone call. “It has been a long time, much too long. How are you and your family doing? Ah, but I miss your mother. A brilliant, spirited woman, she was, yes indeed.” He starts rambling, too excited to let me insert my two cents. It’s irking, but he seems like a friendly fellow. And I can hear it in his voice just how much he misses my mother.

So, for her sake, I let him talk.

He tells me the story of how they met — at three o'clock in the morning in the parking lot of some restaurant that’s long gone out of business — and how Mom “talked him down off the ledge” and made him see the goodness in people again. He doesn’t delve into the matter, and I don’t press. All I can do is wonder just what the hell kind of “ledge” this was and if he really is as decent a man as I suspect.

We laugh together. I hum every now and then to feign interest. And when he starts tearing up, I do, too.

But, at long last, he pulls himself together and says, “Ah, but listen to me, I’m rambling! You must be bored out of your mind. You called for a reason. You need a tree, yes?”

I perk up instantly. “Yeah — _yes_ , sir, I do.”

“Yes, yes, well…I know I made a promise at her funeral — I never forget, you know, _never_ — but sadly, at the moment I cannot give you a tree.”

You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach, the sinking sort that comes when someone tells you something so unbelievably stupid, and you have no idea whether to laugh or cry or scream?

It’s surprising how quickly that feeling comes to me.

“You’re joking,” is the only thing I can manage in response. And then I _chuckle_. What else can I do? “I’m sorry…did I hear you right? You… _cannot_ …give us a tree? Why not?!”

“No, no, _I_ apologize, dear. Please, know that I feel absolutely horrible about saying all of this,” Mr. Pereyra speaks quickly. “Unfortunately we are all sold out. I’ve got a guy set to bring in more trees by Friday, but I am not too sure he will be able to make it. I don’t know if you heard but it is supposed to snow badly this coming week.”

He’s right: I haven’t heard a damn thing, on the news or on Facebook or _anywhere_ , about a snow storm.

And, frankly, I couldn’t give two shits.

“All right, well…” But I need to keep my cool. It would be unfair for me to blow up on this guy; he’s in a similar position as I am, where all control has been revoked indefinitely. “Do you happen to know if there are any _other_ companies in the area that have trees?”

“Er…well, Miss Wolford…” He clears his throat. “It is the craziest thing, you know, absolutely crazy, but it seems that every tree servicing company within twenty miles of this place is cleared out. It must be some sort of Christmas tree fever!” He laughs, hard enough to send him into a coughing fit.

But I don’t find any of this funny. Not even a little bit.

“But, ugh, you know, if something changes,” Mr. Pereyra continues, “you will be the first person I notify, okay? And we will deliver a tree straight to your house as soon as possible — free of charge!”

“Awesome, okay, thank you, bye-bye.”

I rush to hang up the phone…so that I can chuck it. It clatters along the tables’ surface, bounces off the cushion of the adjacent chair, and careens toward the floor. I’m too busy palming my eyes and screeching into the inside of my wrist to care. The screeching becomes coughing, and the coughing becomes wheezing, and over all the noise I somehow manage to hear, “Everything okay in here?”

Flushed from the exertion, I clear my throat and look up at Elaine. “No, not really. The, ugh…tree servicing company we used to get our trees from? They’re completely sold out.”

Elaine slow-blinks. “Huh?”

“That’s — _exactly_.”

“Well…have you tried calling any other companies yet?”

“Nope. The manager told me that every other company within twenty miles of here is cleared out.” Elaine’s eye twitches, and I nod. “ _Yeah_. So, you can see why I’m kind of wigging out right now.”

“It’s…it’s okay. You know, it’s fine.” Elaine picks up my phone, checks the screen for any cracks, and, with an approving nod, slides it back to me. She pulls up the chair next to me and clasps her hands around mine. “Real trees are overrated anyway. We’ll just…buy an artificial one. Maybe we can get one that’s flocked; I’ve always wanted one of those.”

Only one problem: I don’t _want_ to buy an artificial tree. Mom didn’t hate them, but for some reason she was strongly opposed to the idea of having one. In her eyes, they were more of a hassle to deal with than real trees. (They were also smellier.)

Though the more I ponder, the more I begin to wonder if I really have a choice at this point. Christmas is only a few days away. The house lights Maui and Dad are buying will need to go up, and who knows how long it will take with just Maui doing the work; shopping will have to be done soon (and I am _not_ looking forward to that); and I still don’t have a menu prepared for the Christmas party — or _anything else_ for that matter.

We’re running out of time.

So, I relent. It’s about all I can do to keep from going insane.

Elaine makes the call to Dad about the tree because I don’t have nearly enough strength to deal with it anymore. While they talk, I grab a napkin and a Sharpie and start jotting down food ideas. Elaine wants to buy the biggest, most expensive turkey we can find and have a traditional Christmas dinner, but I want to do something simple, classy…and _cheap_. Like finger foods: sandwiches, nachos, bacon-wrapped jalapeño poppers, grilled meat and vegetable skewers, a sausage-and-cheese or fruit tray. Something mobile — on-the-go and delicious.

Perhaps I could find a healthy middle to satisfy the both of us.

I’m in the throes of party planning when Elaine balks.

“You have _got_ to be shitting me.” Her upper lip curls into a bewildered snarl. I hear Dad respond, and Elaine’s eyes roll back into her skull. “They’re sold out of trees? _Really_? An entire fucking store?” More muttering. What sounds to be a reprimand. “Yeah, okay, _sorry_. But...I mean, could you guys check somewhere else? Maybe at Target or Walmart…” A brief pause. _More muttering_. “ _Hoo_ -kay…no, don’t worry about it, Daddy. I understand. You boys just focus on getting home, okay? Be safe.”

Elaine hangs up and says nothing. She doesn’t have to. She passes me my phone and buries her face in her hands. It takes us both a few minutes to recover, and once the wave of stupidity has passed, she lifts her head, sniffs loudly, and asks, “So, are you pregnant or what?”

I choke mid-breath. “No, fuckin’…Jesus — _no_.”

“Well, excuse the fuck outta me for being suspicious. What was I supposed to think? You were asking all these sketchy questions about kids, so I thought…” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and sighs. “I mean…are you and Maui, like... _considering_ , or…?”

“No, we're n-not…I don’t, ugh…” I rub my forehead. Take a second to untie my knotted tongue and steel my nerves. “All right. The truth is…” I fill her in on the brief conversation Maui and I had in the garage the other day. I’d been fretting constantly, disturbed by my disquiet over what was probably nothing more than a simple slip of the tongue.

It’s not that I don’t want to have kids someday — I do, but in the future. As in the next ten or so years, because by then I'll have finally figured out what to do with my life... _probably_.

But Maui’s words have got me thinking, What if he wants to have kids _now_? Or if not now, then within the next two or three years? Am I ready for such a commitment? I love Maui, but am I willing to sacrifice my time and freedom, and the relationship we have now - the relationship we slaved to make possible?

If I have to call it a "sacrifice," then the answer is most likely no.

"I'm... _confused_ ," I remark sincerely, running a hand through my tangled tresses. "I don't know what to do; I don't even know what to _say_ to him. If it were up to me, I would remain ignorant and continue to act like this never happened."

Elaine reaches out and flicks the space between my eyebrows. "But is that the right thing to do?" We both know the answer, but I shake my head anyway. She tilts her head. "Then what I suggest you do is talk to Maui."

"But I _can't_ -"

"If you're waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, it won't. And if you're waiting for the anxiety to go away, then you'll be waiting for a long ass time because that sure as shit won't. It's going to be an awkward conversation. You're going to hear things you don't want to hear and so will he. By the end of it, both of you will be angry or upset or disappointed. That's the risk you take in a relationship, McKenna - but you _have_ to communicate." Elaine dips her voice low and flits her eyes over my shoulder, checking to make sure we're alone before she says, "Let me tell you a secret: I might have fibbed a little the other day. Richard _desperately_ wants to have children. But we've talked about it, time and again: _I'm_ not ready yet. And although it pains him to hear it, he respects my decision the same way I respect his. This is _your_ body, McKenna; _you_ do with it what you will at your own pace. And if Maui doesn't respect that? Then he isn't the right fit."

I've never doubted Maui's devotion to me, nor have I given him cause to doubt mine. Our respect for each other has always been mutual. But Elaine is right. Unless we talk about it, we won't know where we stand on the issue. This isn't the kind of thing we can sweep under the rug.

There's a click from the foyer, and the front door swings open. My confidence slips, my breath hitching in fear. Elaine tugs my forearm and crushes me to her, my face in her shoulder. In a breathy whisper, she says, "Approach him slowly. Remember to breathe. Everything will be okay."

Dad and Maui bustle through the kitchen archway, heaving bulging plastic bags in their arms. Their capped heads are glazed with frost, their sleeves and shoulders powdered with fresh snow. Their noses and cheeks are red, flushed from the cold. They lay the bags carelessly on the island.

Dad's breath is labored. He cradles his injured arm and shivers. "My God, it is freezing out there. And the stores - _madness_! I have _never_ encountered so many entitled, cruel-hearted, arrogant pricks in one place. There was this one woman - I tell you, girls, never have I seen a more vicious creature in all my life - who almost got into a bawl with Maui over...what was it, son? Girl scout cookies?"

Maui procures a single red box of cookies. The front of the box depicts three young girls in canoes, paddles raised and smiles wide as they coast along the still river. Laughing incredulously, he says, "This woman threatened me with violence if I didn't give her the last box of Tagalongs. I _almost_ gave it to her...she was a _big girl_. Bigger than me, and that's saying something."

"Luckily for us, she put on quite the show and got herself escorted out of the store by security."

"Oh, did you see the look on her face? I thought she was going to burst a blood vessel."

Elaine nudges my shoulder and winks before slipping out of the chair. She approaches Dad, loops an elbow around his good arm, and tugs him out of the kitchen, all the while devising the excuse, "Daddy, I need your help deciding on a gift idea for Richard. Do you think you could help me brainstorm?"

"Of course! I have a few ideas - I jotted them down in my journal. Come, let me show you..."

Once they're gone, and the doors to Dad's office slide shut, it's just me and Maui.

Pulling in a filling breath, I open my mouth to address him but nothing comes out. Embarrassed, I duck my head low and cover my mouth when several loud coughs explode out of my lungs.

Maui rips open the box of Tagalongs and asks, "How are you feeling?"

I jerk my hand dismissively. "I'm all right. I'm..." I clear my throat. Grimace as phlegm crackles and breaks apart in my chest. I shake my head. "Listen, Maui...there's something that I...something that _we_ need to..."

Maui holds up a hand. "I know where you're going with this, Frowny. It's okay, you can relax. Trust me when I say that I have been beating myself up over what I said to you. it was to much, too soon; frankly, I'm not even sure where it came from." He pulls the plastic bag containing the cookies and rips that open, too, digging two fingers inside and pulling out a cookie no bigger than a fifty cent coin. "It wasn't my intention to freak you out, but...well, that's obviously what happened. I'm sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry." I scoot out of the chair and cross the kitchen. He leans against the island and crosses his ankles; I mimic him. He offers me the bag of cookies, and with a gracious smile I pull one out and pop it in my mouth. Around my chewing, I say, "I should have confronted you about it right then and there, but I ran away because it scared me. That wasn't fair to you."

For a few minutes, we munch in thoughtful silence. I shift closer to Maui and rest my head on his shoulder. Under the collar of his shirt, I catch the faintest of movements of Maui's tattoos. Maui grumbles something under his breath.

"Maui?" It's time for me to ask the question; I can't keep pushing it aside. "Do you...want to have kids?"

I expect his response to such a loaded question to be facetious or cold, but he replies, a bit more heartfelt than I think he intended, "Of course I do. Someday. When we're _both_ ready."

I close my eyes and nestle further into his side. "You're not desperate?"

Maui crumples the bag of cookies, now empty, and tosses it over his shoulder. He kicks off the island and grabs me by the shoulders, forcing me to face him.

"McKenna," he says in a low voice. "There is nothing in this world I love more than you. The last thing I want you to think is that I'm pressuring you to do something you don't want to do. We have plenty of time, sweetness. And I don't know if you're aware of this yet, but I'm a pretty patient guy - I once stewed on an island for a thousand years praying for a boat to show up and take me home. I think I can wait a little bit longer for something like this." He chuckles, and so do I. "I love you, McKenna. Nothing will ever change that."

I lean forward. Remember that I'm sick and decide against laying a big fat one right on his mouth. Instead, I touch my forehead and tip of my nose to his. He smiles and closes his eyes, hands slipping down my sides to hold firm on my hips.

"I love you, too, Maui...thank you."

He frowns. "For what?"

"For being you. For being respectful of my wishes. For being just...absolutely _wonderful_ in every way."

Maui bumps my nose with his and kisses my forehead. "You really don't have to thank me for that, McKenna. I mean, I _know_ I'm an awesome guy." I pinch him playfully. "No, but I'm serious. You deserve the world and more my love. And I _really_ shouldn't say this because it'll play into that ' _narcissism_ ' you claim I have, but...you're welcome."

~*~

Later that evening, I'm dozing on the living room couch watching Jim Carrey's _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ when I smell smoke.

I sit up slowly, bunching my blanket nervously in my fingers. Maui is outside working on the house; he'd managed to re-wrap the porch, and even tested the lights to make sure they worked at my request. Dad is in his office. Elaine is upstairs taking a shower. And Richard is...

A cry sounds from the kitchen.

Seconds later, plumes of smoke belch through the kitchen archway, blanketing the ceiling in an ashy black. The fire alarm blares, ringing sharply in my ears.

I kick off the blanket and scramble to my feet. There's a crash above me - Elaine's loud shriek of surprise - but I ignore it and throw myself headlong into the smog.

The smoke is thick, so much so I can barely see my hand only inches from my face. Not to mention it's murder on my lungs. I squint my eyes, which are already hot and watering severely. Through the veil of black, I spot the source of the smoke, a muted glow of orange flame that pulses savagely from within the mouth of the oven. A dark shadow paces back and forth in front of it.

"Rich-" I try to call out to him, but the smoke clogs my lungs and my voice fails. I raise my arm and bury my mouth and nose in the crook of my arm. At a measured pace, I stride across the kitchen. My hip bumps against the corner of the island and I grunt.

"McKenna?" Richard calls out, my name devolving into a fit of violent coughs.

Guided primarily by touch, I feel my way along the far wall, hand skimming along the smooth, rounded ends of the granite countertop. After a few seconds of searching, my fingers rise over the edge of the sink, the metal cool and slightly damp. I thrust both arms upward, knocking the back of my left hand against the faucet. The smoke charges up my nose, burning my sinuses further and drawing more tears out of my eyes.

From the arch of the kitchen, Dad shouts, "Stand back, Richard!" Shortly after, a pitched whine resounds, followed by a brief sputtering. The fire hisses in resistance, billowing out one last round of thick smoke before relinquishing the fight.

Heart pounding, head fuzzy, I grab hold of the silken drapes and yank them open. My hands tremble as I reach next for the lock on the window. Years of settled dust and grime have fixed it firmly into the bolt, but with a mighty heave of my thumb it slips right out. I smack the window open-

The smoke immediately diffuses, surging through the window and out into the open air. Only when the room starts to clear do I move away from the sink and open the windows in the breakfast nook.

Dad is standing next to the open stove, the fire extinguisher leveraged between his thigh and the cabinet. He points the black nozzle at the oven in his good hand, and has his body twisted so he can depress the lever with his injured one. The oven, as well as the countertop and Richard, are lathered thoroughly in a milky white foam.

Richard wipes his eyes, shoulders drawn up to his ears in shame. He glances at the pan in the oven, which contains the charred remains of what I can only assume were supposed to be cookies. They run together, bubbling in certain areas and hardened in others. The batter drips off the edges of the pan, flowing like molasses out of a bottle toward the bottom of the oven.

With the smoke clear and the alarms turned off, an eerie and uncomfortable silence builds. My ears continue to ring. I have to stand close to the window to calm my breathing. 

The padding of bare feet on the tile draws all of our attention. Elaine, wrapped up in a peach colored towel, her hair sopping wet, gazes wide-eyed from one face to the next. When her eyes land on Richard, she covers her mouth and rushes to his aid, slipping slightly on the drenched floors.

"Oh, my - what in the world happened?!"

"That," Dad grumbles, setting the fire extinguisher at his feet, "is a _great_ question. Richard." Said man stiffens, jaw clenched in terror. "What in the _world_ happened?"

Richard gulps, Adams' apple bobbing. "I - I was just t-trying to..." His voice catches. He wipes at his eyes again. Elaine coos and throws her arms around him, smearing foam across her face and musing it into her hair. "I w-wanted to bake cookies for you guys...f-for Elaine. But they were too...too runny. When they started burning, I tried to pull them out of the oven...and they just..."

"It's okay, Richie," Elaine murmurs, but Dad bobs his head from side to side and retorts, "It most certainly is not! Imagine if we hadn't gotten here in time? The whole kitchen could have caught fire! And McKenna - look at _her_!"

The weight of their gazes is suffocating. I hang my head out of the window, sniffling uncontrollably and wiping my wet eyes on my sleeves. My stomach is cramping again, and my chest hurts from coughing so damn much.

"McKenna, I-"

"It's...okay, Richie," I croak flatly. I slump further against the window sill and press my cheek to the cool glass panel. "It's fine..."

"No, it isn't! You could have killed her-"

"Oh, Daddy, don't be dramatic! It was an _accident_."

"McKenna?" A hand falls on my shoulder. I groan, turning quickly on my heel. I throw myself into Maui's icy, rock-hard stomach, shivering and wheezing like mad. "Hey, shh, it's all right. I know it hurts, Frowny, but you have to _breathe_."

Despite the pain in my chest, I giggle. "Déjà vu...huh, Maui?"

He hums, rubbing a hand up and down my back. "Glad your sense of humor is still intact. Come on. Let's get you upstairs. You need to rest."

"Elaine, go get dressed," I hear Dad say as Maui eases me out of the kitchen. "Richard, grab a towel and wipe yourself off. You're both going to clean this kitchen until it's spotless. Then, Richard, once you've cleaned yourself up, I'd like to see you in my office. We have _much_ to talk about."


	6. December 18th

Someone is screaming.

It's the ear-splitting kind of scream, the kind that comes from a deep place of unbridled fear - the kind you hear from the dumb bimbo in a horror movie. The scream pierces the night, startles Maui and I out of our pleasant slumber.

Maui rolls onto his side - a horrible decision because I'm glued to his shoulder, my hair caught in his armpit. Forced to follow his momentum, I cartwheel over his head and land on the edge of my bed, a ball of flailing limbs and hysteric shrieks. My butt doesn't quite meet level surface and I collapse on the floor with a hard thud. My teeth clack and just about shatter in my mouth.

"Ah, shit, McKenna, I'm sorr-"

I tug my hair free, smack Maui on the arm, and stumble to my feet. I throw open the door. The hallway is dark, quiet - until a bright sliver of gold under Elaine's door penetrates the black. Bare feet slap against solid wood. Bed sheets rumple and flutter.

Elaine screams again. This time, with words, "Bat! It's a bat!"

"It's not a bat, love. It's-"

"I don't _care_ what it is, Richard! Just kill. It. With. FIRE!"

Maui peers over my shoulder. His bottom lip curls inward, locks between his teeth. His chest spasms.

"Don't laugh," I chide.

"What? Why would I laugh, I am _not_ laughing, this is serious." He clears his throat and forces his mouth into a frown. A very twitchy frown.

I grit my molars in annoyance - I'd be lying if I said I wasn't amused, either - and trot across the hall. The door springs open before my fingers touch the handle. Elaine and Richard come barreling out shoulder-to-shoulder, panting and grunting, two sweaty, hyperventilating messes. They tackle me to the wall, my breath exploding in a strained puff.

Through the gap between their heads, I catch a glimpse into Elaine's room. It's no longer nice and tidy, there are books and throw pillows and blankets everywhere. The velour curtains have been stripped from the ceiling, dusted in a thin coat of drywall, the windows bared.

In front of the window, smacking its chest pathetically against the glass, is a small black creature with wings. But it isn't a bat, not even close.

It's a...

"A pigeon?" Maui eyes the bird as it reels back, feathers ruffling, and flings itself into the glass once more. He coughs, clipping his laughter in half. Elaine socks him in the gut. His stomach caves, eyes crossing - playfully, obviously, because his abs are reinforced, like, with titanium or something. " _Gods_...you...Wolford women are _violent people_."

Elaine ignores him and shouts. "Get that thing out of my room _right now_!" She anchors herself behind Maui, props a foot up on the wall, and mutters a string of, Go, go, go's as she shoves his back. He doesn't even _lean_.

"What do you want _me_ to do?"

"I dunno...transform into a pigeon, maybe, and convince it to get out of my room?"

Another loud smack as feathered flesh strikes glass.

Maui twists his head, grinning sardonically. "Clearly, you don't know what it is that I do."

"What _do_ you do, then? Because it seems to me like it's a whole lot of _nothing_ , fatso!"

"Wow. First of all, let's get one thing straight: The only _fat_ thing about me is my hair, and I take great pride in it. Thank you very much. Second, what I do is a little something called 'world saving'. I make sure the Earth keeps spinning and the Sun stays right where it is, but most importantly - _I make sure the world stays saved_!"

"Children, children." I elbow Richard out of the way and step through the threshold of Elaine's bedroom. The pigeon startles, scratching its scaly feet against the window sill. I squat down and lift the sheet. "Maui, grab that corner. We're going to try and trap it. Elaine-" My sister shakes her head vehemently, and I sigh. "- _Richard_ , stay close."

"W-what's the plan?" He asks, but steps up without hesitating. He twiddles his fingers and glances back and forth anxiously, from me to the bird. He's nervous - that much is obvious - but instead of bowing out like he normally would, he's helping. Probably as a way to compensate for the kitchen debacle yesterday.

"Maui and I are going to trap the bird under this sheet to keep it from going anywhere." I pass one corner to Maui. We straighten the sheet and pull it taut. "Richard, you're going to open the window. From there, we'll try to shepherd the bird out."

Elaine groans. "God, just kill it! I'll go grab a hammer and you guys can-"

"We're _not_ killing is, Elaine! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"That thing stress-shit in my hair!" She turns around and gestures to the base of her skull, where her hair is matted in a thick, pasty white gloop. "Sorry for not having any sympathy for it."

"Uhm, Frowny? We better get moving."

I turn toward the bird. It's finally figured out, a million chest bumps later, that it won't be getting out through the window and is beginning a steady scale up the wall. I nod my head at Maui and say, "Now!"

We lunge, hefting up the sheet. Richard belts out a war cry and throws himself at the window, hands ready on the latch. The bird thumps into the wall once and whirls around. its eyes meet mine - impossible, you say, but it's true, and in those beady coals I see a cool collectedness.

This bird is about to pull a James Bond and fuck up my entire plan.

Maui and I thrust out our arms, the sheet ballooned between us like a pulled parachute. My hands hit the wall; Maui's a moment later, after he recovers from tripping over one of Elaine's mammoth-sized tomes. But it's all the time the bird needs to swoop out of the way. I watch, eyes wide, as it enters a state of full panic, wings moving as fast as a hummingbirds' and legs kicking erratically. A thin trail of wet, white poop drips down one leg and onto Elaine's mattress.

She gags.

"Maui-" I pull back the sheet, gesturing that we should try tossing it to catch the bird, when a large glob with the consistency of mayonnaise hits his face dead center.

He yanks the sheet out of my hands and starts rubbing his face with it. By this point, Elaine is no doubt catatonic - these sheets are made of the highest quality silk. Very expensive, and now covered in bird shit.

On Maui's chest, Mini-Maui pretends to fight off his own bird, his cheeks puffed to hold in his vomit at Maui's expense.

I whip around to address Richard - he's the only person I can turn to now - but the spot where he once stood by the window is vacant. He dipped out, too, and is now hunkered in the hallway with Elaine.

Men. Unreliable creatures, the lot of them.

"McKenna!"

Well, most of them.

Dad, ever the valiant hero our family needs but does not deserve, skids through the doorway, clad in his wine red bathrobe with the gold sash and a pair of slippers. In the crook of his arm are two things: A broom and a dust-pan, the kind they have in salons to sweep the hair into. He drops the broom into his open palm and tosses it to me, then raises the dust-pan high above his head - scattering a cloud of dust and lint (R.I.P. Elaine Isadora Wolford-Wyman) - toward the ceiling.

There's got to be a better way, a simpler way, I think. But the bird is still stress-shitting all over Elaine's room, and it's starting to stink, and Maui's eyes are shot red because he got poop in them, and I don't have any other sheets to work with. So, putting things into perspective, this really is our only option.

"Try to trap it against the wall," Dad orders, shadowing my form as I raise the broom and sweep the bristles across the ceiling toward the bird. It recoils at every advance, ducking left when I approach from the right and vice versa. "McKenna, trap it-"

"I'm trying!" I shriek.

Another stream of poop lands on my right arm. I do my best not to shudder or cry out in frustration.

With a growl, I smack the bird in its side. The wing buckles, and it starts to dip toward the ground. In its moment of shock, I trap it in the crevice of the wall and the ceiling.

"Okay, Dad, come here."

"Well, honey - I need you to move-"

"I _can't_. _Move_. Just...reach around me or something."

"Ugh..." Dad pivots his body, smushes himself between me and Elaine's dresser, and plants a foot right between mine. The strain is evident on his brow as he raises the dust pan closer to the bird, which fights back against the broom, jostling my arms like mad.

"Any day now, Dad."

"Scoot the bird closer-"

"If I try to scoot the bird closer, it'll fly away."

" _Try_ , McKenna-"

"What do you think I'm _DOING_?!"

" _There_!"

The broom slips, dragging the bird a whopping three centimeters in the direction of the dust pan. With an explosion of feathers, it throws itself headlong into the pan. I follow Dad's direction and cover the mouth of the pan with the broom so the bird can't fly out.

Save for the thumping of flesh against plastic, there's a brief respite of quiet, a time for Dad and I to catch our breath. After a few minutes, the bird stills.

"Okay," Dad whispers, as if anything louder than that will startle to bird into another frenzy. "On three, we're both going to lower our arms slowly. No sudden movements. Maui? Son, are you good to open the window?"

Muffled by the sheet comes Maui's begrudged response, "It'd be my pleasure, sir."

"All right, on three. Ready?" I nod. "One...two...three..."

We lower our arms, shaking and burning from being held up for so long. The bird, as we should have guessed it would, starts swinging and flapping, ramming itself against the bristles of the broom. It takes every ounce of shoulder and wrist strength I have to keep the broom from flying back and exposing the mouth of the pan.

"We're almost there, sweetheart. Here, let's start walking toward the window..."

From and outsiders' perspective, we must look like an extremely odd and highly dysfunctional family: Two young adults balled up in the doorway with snot and tears gushing down their chins; an injured father and his daughter shuffling awkwardly in time with each other, holding up a broom and a dust pan that keeps jarring their arms from side to side; and a large, excessively tattooed man with poop smeared across his face, opening the window so he can wretch into the bushes.

We deserve our own reality show at this point. Call it, Keeping Up With the Kooks, or some shit like that.

Maui steps back and wipes his lip as we approach, eyeballing the dust pan furiously. He isn't an advocate for animal-killing, either - he went almost two hundred years without touching meat, which is something you don't see every day in the vegan community - but for this bird, I have no doubt he'd make an exception.

One does not simply poop on a Demi-Gods' face and live to tell the tale.

Dad levels the dust pan with his chest, and with a wave of his hand, I pull back the broom. He tilts the pan out of the window—

And _voila_ \- the bird takes to the air! (Of course, not before thumping against the frame one last time.)

Maui slams the window shut in case it decides to turn round and dive back in for some more fun. The broom and dust pan clatter to the floor. Dad sags against the wall, rolling his shoulder which is no doubt as sore as mine are.

“Elaine,” Dad says, panting. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“No! No, I am not all right.” Elaine shoots up off the floor and stomps into the room. Her nose scrunches — to say that the aroma in here is unpleasant is an understatement — and she covers her mouth. “My room…my books, my bed, my… _my vinyls_!” She stoops down to mourn over the pile of vinyls strewn across the floor. Most of them are fine, still covered in their sheaths; a few of them, however, lay bare and unprotected, the outer edges chipped and cracked from being stepped on. These, she scoops into her arms and cries over.

Richard rubs her shoulders and asks, “How did that bird even get in here?”

“It must have flown in yesterday when the windows were open,” Dad offers, tapping the nape of his neck. “Elaine, honey, it’s all right. We’ll buy you new ones.”

I close my eyes and lean forward, bonking my forehead lightly against the glass. Through my lashes, I take in the world outside, dimly lit and foggy.

Across the street, The Robinson's house stands grand and tall through the velvet mist. Their house is bigger than ours, this shy of a mansion. They have a spacious yard with a U-shaped driveway and an elegant copper fountain. The beds framing the porch are packed tight with high, verdant green boxwood hedges, all neatly trimmed to resemble perfect cubes. They also have flowers - agapanthus and thistle - and imperial bonsai trees that come up to my chest.

I've always found bonsai trees fascinating. I had a small palm-sized one when I was little, but it died because I treated it more like a toy and less like an actual living plant. I've been urging my father to get me another one, but no matter where we look we just can't seem to find any.

 _Unless_...

My head snakes back at the thought. I whirl around, interrupt whatever argument Dad and Elaine are having, and say, "Hey, Dad, do you still hate the Robinson's?"

The Robinson’s are a massive family of nutcases even nuttier than we are. They moved in two years after we did, and Dad took an immediate disliking to them. They're loud, they listen to absurd music, and every week they seem to wheel out a new weird invention of some sort down to their curb. (I swear at one point I thought they were trying to resurrect their own Frankenstein. Why else would you fasten a metal rod to the top of your house?)

Last year, Dad’s hatred for them was solidified when one of their “bum” inventions exploded randomly and sent shrapnel hurdling through our windows. Luckily no one was home at the time, but imagine what could have happened if we had been?

Dad’s responds quickly, “Of course I do. Why do you ask?”

I smile ruefully and gesture to their yard. “I think I know how we can get payback for what they did to our house.”

~*~

The Robinson’s went on vacation the week of Thanksgiving and haven’t been back since. They have two identical men who stop by once every week to check on the place, make sure it’s clean and hasn’t been ransacked, et cetera. But right now, no one is home.

Naturally, this is the perfect time to do it.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Frowny?” Maui whispers as we sneak across the street. A dog, having caught a whiff of our scent on the breeze, begins barking up a storm. Other than that, there isn’t a soul in sight. “These types of extreme ideas are usually _my_ sort of thing. Are you sure you’re feeling better?”

“Shh,” I hold up a finger as a car engine rumbles to life. I’m not sure who the hell is awake at four o’clock in the morning, but the last thing I want them to see is two people dressed in black wielding a wheel barrow and shovels. There’s a flash of red — taillights, I notice — halfway down the road as the car backs out of the driveway and takes off down the street.

We’re in the clear.

“The Robinson’s never paid us back for the damage sustained on our house,” I tell him as we move, slinking through their yard up to one of the bonsai trees — a beautiful, mangled majesty. “But they are now. And we’re here to collect.”

Maui snickers. “Okay. That was a pretty good line.”

“Right? I thought so, too.”

I set the wheel barrow close to the tree and grab the shovel Maui offers. Together, we uproot the soil around the base of the tree, listening intently for voices. Twice we have to abandon our digging and drop to our stomachs on the ground to let a car pass. It takes longer than expected, but in the wee ours of dawn, when the sky is silver, we lug the hefty tree, roots and all, into the wheel barrow and start back for home.

Take that, Robinson’s.

~*~

Luckily for us, we have a clay pot big enough to put the tree into. I hadn’t thought about what we would put it in, and was relieved that, thanks to Mom, my quick thinking wasn’t met with disaster.

Maui and I have to take a few more trips over to the Robinson’s yard to collect some soil, but after an hour of configuring, we finally have our tree. Tucked into the nook in the front room, the bonsai tree sits, stout and proud. We’ve strung small lights around the twisted trunk and hung all of the important ornaments I set aside from the underside of the branches, leaving the top bare. We usually put a star on top, but there’s just no way we can do that this year.

When it’s done, Dad turns on the lights, and we crowd around the tree to admire our work. It isn’t the ideal, but it shockingly feels loads better than having no tree at all. It’s like slapping a band-aid on a case of gangrene — improper in execution, but hey, it’s the thought that counts.

Maui puts his arm around my shoulders and I fall into him, letting out a relieved sigh.

If Mom were here, she’d probably think that we belonged in a mental institution. I mean, stealing someones’ bonsai tree to make it your _Christmas tree_? The hell kind of idea is that?

But then I remember that Mom hated the Robinson’s, too. She baked them a pie to welcome them to the neighborhood, only to have it catapulted across the street an hour later. And something to know about Mom is that she took great pride in her baking.

So, really, if she were here, she would probably ask us why we only stopped at the one tree.


	7. December 19th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major oof.

Elaine refused to sleep in her bedroom after the pigeon fiasco, at least not until the room was properly fumigated, the mattress was steam-cleaned thrice, and new sheets were purchased.

Because a simple wash-and-tumble is, apparently, too much for $1,000 sheets, and in her opinion it's better to have them cremated and their ashes spread over The Ocean.

So, much to the chagrin of Maui and myself, she decided...no, that's not the right word: She _demanded_ to bunk with me in my room. Which left Maui and Richard bed-less. And, unfortunately for them (but mostly for Maui), the only open bed left in the entire house was in the _attic_. Quite the irony, if I do say so myself.

But Maui is a clever man, and that's why I love him. He snatched up his hook, transformed into a dog - some adorable mix between a Shih Tzu and a Bichon Frise - and made himself comfortable on my fluffy white papasan.

So, really, it was mostly unfortunate for Richard.

We armed him with a few mouse traps and some cheese, a can of Raid and a fleece blanket, and sent him on his way.

When morning came and we all converged in the kitchen, Richard was the first one there, eyes sunken and purple and his hair unkempt. He wasn't attempting to cook breakfast for us - we all breathed a collective sigh of relief - but he _had_ fixed a pot of coffee which, to our bewilderment, tasted phenomenal. We drank and made small talk and joked about all of the recent goings-on the past few days.

Elaine was still a touch sensitive about her room, but not enough to be completely vexed by our taunting. Once or twice, I caught her hiding a smile around the rim of her mug.

The morning passed quickly, bleeding into a cool, gray noon. We didn't have much else to do in terms of decorating, save for setting up the expansive Lemax Village display Mom had collected over the years.

It's a spectacle, really: Over two dozen ceramic buildings styled into 19th century shoppes, houses, apartments, and chapels; approximately one hundred and three figurines of sharply-dressed men and elegant women, young children, teenagers dressed in ragged clothing, and animals of various kinds; and a backdrop, of all things, of snow-capped mountains and vast green plains.

As if the village by itself wasn't _extra_ enough.

Elaine and I set it up exactly as it had appeared in our childhood ( _near_ -exact, I guess you could say) on two collapsable tables, and then we caked the buildings and tabletops with fake snow. Buried the figurines until the only visible parts of them were the crowns of their heads.

We were just about to check and see if the lights in several of the buildings worked when my phone rang. I scooped it up and answered without checking the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Come to the front door. Now."

It was Corinne. She delivered those words with the harsh authority of a drill sergeant and then hung up, leaving me somewhat flustered. Elaine had heard it - I'd tell you that my volume was turned all the way up, but that'd be a lie: Corinne's voice is _that_ powerful - and I could tell she was just as affected because she was already booking it for the door, a nervous bounce in her step. She paused a moment to shoot me a brief worried glance before opening the door.

Standing on our porch was Rayne and Corinne, arms linked at the elbow. Corinne was bundled severely, engulfed in a beanie, mittens, and a peach-colored corduroy puffer jacket two sizes too big for her body, and Rayne - _bless her heart_ \- was wearing a denim jacket and a skirt. (Probably best that we don't ask why.) Her other arm was behind her back, and she beamed widely.

"Get dressed, Wolfords," Corinne declared through chattering teeth. "We're going out."

"'Out'? Where to?"

"You don't need to know the deets," Rayne said before Corinne could snap at us again. She swooped her arm forward and presented an upside-down bowler hat, filled with folded slips of paper. To me, she said, "I thought about making a list but figured it would ruin the surprise. If Mr. Wolford, Richard and Maui are available, we should go ahead and draw names! They could even come with us, if they want!"

"That's...awesome." I took the hat, surprised by the sincerity in my voice when I said, "Thank you, Rayne."

"It was no problem at all! It was actually a lot of fun. I wanted to discuss budget with you, though. Should we keep it relatively cheap and do a maximum of twenty-five dollars because, like, I obviously have _no idea_ how everyone else is doing financially and the last thing I wanna do is, like, pick an amount that's too expensive, you know what I mean? So, I-"

Corinne groaned. "For the love of fuck, can we please come inside to talk about this? I'm freezing my tits off."

"It's not even that cold," Rayne muttered. Corinne cut her eyes at her but said nothing. She didn't have to. Rayne's lip twitched and she cleared her throat. "Uhm, let's head inside, yeah? It _is_ starting to feel a bit chilly out here."

~*~

So, yeah.

That brings us to the present: An impromptu shopping trip to the mall, a week before Christmas day. I could give you a fucking laundry list of reasons why we shouldn't be out shopping at this time of the month, but would Rayne and Corinne listen to me? Of course not.

"Argh, this is such a cute top!"

Rayne squeals as she yanks another shirt off of its hanger. It really isn't _that_ cute: It's just a simple short-sleeve shirt with some smug-looking cartoon character making a stupid quip. But Rayne is a simple girl who likes simple things; she fawns and shrieks, clutching it close to her breast.

"I am _so_ going to buy this."

"Rayne, we're here to buy gifts for _other_ people. Not ourselves. Put the shirt back."

"But-"

" _Now_."

And such an argument wouldn't feel complete without a raspberry, which Rayne doesn't hesitate to blow. She returns the shirt to its hanger and stomps away, grumbling under her breath. Corinne rolls her eyes and continues sifting through the clearance rack. Based on the clothing tucked in the crook of her arm - a dress shirt and a plaid button-down - she's either shopping for Richard or Dad.

Why don't I suspect Maui, you may be asking? Short answer: The clothing size is too small. 'S just that obvious.

After drawing names at the house, we took turns showering - a house with only two and a half bathrooms is not the ideal for five people, two of which (not to name names, but, ahem, _Elaine and Maui_ ) are capable of eating up an entire hour _just_ by fixing their hair - and once we were all ready, we piled into Elaine's car. Corinne and Rayne drove separate.

I'm not sure how it was decided, but as soon as we arrived at Mayfair we split up into groups, with us girls going one way and the boys going another. The plan was to cut through Macy's and hit the smaller shops first, because Macy's is Rayne's Achilles heel and once she starts picking at sleeves, it's game over, see her in three hours. Obviously, that plan failed. Miserably; the second we waltzed through the doors, Rayne made a mad dash for the nearest mannequin, dressed in some skimpy halter top and jean shorts with American flag patches on the thighs. It was over before we even had the chance to start. And despite Corinne's bitching about sticking to the plan, I could tell that she also had zero inclination to leave, either. 

And, wouldn't you know, forty-eight minutes later, we're _still here_ \- and I'm ready to shoot myself in the foot.

I finger the strap of another cross-body and look to Elaine, whose expression mirrors mine. She tucks her chin, flicks her eyes between Rayne and Corinne, and nods.

"Hey, ugh, guys?" Neither of them lifts their head but Corinne grunts, so I take that as a cue to continue. "Elaine and I are going to check out the other shops. We'll meet you at the food court in an hour, okay?"

Another grunt. More metallic scraping as a hanger is yanked viciously across a rack.

_Works for me._

Elaine and I depart, posthaste. We pass in-and-out of most shops on the first floor, omitting ones we both know we'll get sucked into - Sephora and Chico's for her, Barnes & Noble and Dry Goods for me. As we make our way up to the second floor, I try to coax the name of Elaine's Secret Santa out of her but she's...resilient. And a master of segues. Each time I go to breach the topic, she draws my attention to an article of clothing in a store window or a goofy knick-knack, distracting me from my goal.

The truth is, I don't want to know if she drew my name, although the probability of it is high considering we only have seven participants, including myself. No, no. I want to know who she drew so I can convince her to swap Secret Santa's with me.

I drew _Corinne_.

It wouldn't be so bad if I had a clear reading of her personality, her likes and dislikes, her interests. But I don't. Even after all this time, after everything we've been through, I know absolutely nothing about her. She's so reserved, the "speaks only when spoken to" type of girl. I'd hoped the time we spent in Macy's would help me develop at least an idea, but she just continued scooping up mens' clothing like no tomorrow. Rayne even held up article after article for her, brought the entire goddamn store to Corinne's attention, and she showed disdain for each and every piece, so God knows _what_ type of clothing I could buy her that she would actually _like_.

I'm probably overthinking this. Secret Santa's are supposed to be fun, right? We used to do it all the time in elementary school and it was a blast. The presents were always really nice and well thought out, sometimes even funny...mostly because the parents bought them, but I digress.

 _Sigh_.

Corinne isn't the only person I need to buy a present for: I need to get a new pen for Dad - he's been asking for one ever since Grandfathers' disappeared - I need to purchase new vinyls for Elaine (B&N will be my best bet for that, so _take me_ ), Richard would probably appreciate a new sketch book or paints, and Maui...

Maui is a puzzle.

It's our second Christmas together which, I know, I know, is nothing special. It's not as significant as the first, that's for sure.

Last year he told me he didn't want anything, and he scolded me when I bought him a new shirt. Like, of all things, a _shirt_. It wasn't even that expensive or flashy, just a plain salmon pink button-down. He even punished me for it and didn't wear it until almost four months later, and by that time I'd long forgotten about it.

I didn't ask him before we parted if there was anything he wanted because I was worried his response would be the same as last year. But this year...this year, I'm going to buy him a bomb-ass gift, and I'm not going to let him shame me for it. I'll, ugh...I'll buy him...

_Oh!_

I clap my hands, startling Elaine.

_I got it: I'll buy him a watch._

He ogled my fathers' watch quite a bit during our trip to Motunui. I'd considered giving it to him afterwards but it broke.

What was the name of the watch again? It started with a B...dammit. I remember threatening to pummel him with a baseball bat if he asked me for a loan, but I can't remember something as simple as a watch's nam-

Then I see it, as we're gliding past Kay Jeweler's, sitting on a clearance rack on the opposite side of the window: A men's Blancpain villeret, stainless steel, complete with a moon phase aperture and a calendar.

_That's it! That's the watch._

My first thought at seeing it is, How the fuck did such an expensive watch wash up in a place like this? _And_ at this exact moment? ~~For the sake of the plot, maybe?~~

My second thought?

 _Run_.

I slip away from Elaine, ducking and weaving through the growing crowd. Two long lines stretch out of Kay Jeweler's, so I have to elbow my way through a herd of people. I glare and gnash my teeth at women who try to stiff me because they think I'm cutting in line.

One child manifests out of no where, wielding a hockey stick. I'm not sure what his ulterior motive is here but when my foot falls right, he jumps left and when my foot falls left, he leaps to the right. All the while, he bumps a soda can back and forth along the floor. I can see it in his narrow eyes, the anticipation for me to reciprocate, to join in on his stupid little game. He moves forward one step at a time, steadily closing in. Scraping that damned aluminum can against the hard tile. Giggling shrilly with a smug-ass smile on his face.

_Mama ain't got time for this._

When he bumps the can away from his body, I swing my leg back and punt it as hard as possible, launching it into the air. It meets its mark on the back of an older gentlemans' head. He whirls around, flames raging in his eyes, and when he glances our way, I toss up my hand and gesture to the little boy.

"Good luck, you little shit," I whisper to him as the gentleman leaves his place in line and blazes a path toward us. The little boys' face puckers in fear; he hugs the hockey stick close to his body and bunches his shoulders. I snatch at the opportunity to slip past him.

Getting through the doorway is a tad bit tricky. An old bat who should have died three years ago flaps her gums and cusses me out in Spanish as I slip between her and what I assume to be her daughter, who also starts cussing me out in Spanish. I fire back a rough-sounding, " _Vete a la mierda_ ," which stunts them just enough to let me escape. A few more elbow jabs, another angry shout, another child that I have to stiff-arm. The watch is so close I can practically see my reflection in it.

_Just a little further._

Yao Ming's cousin suddenly steps in front of me and I plow right into his lower back. He hardly staggers, his long, powerful legs holding him as steady as a broad fucking oak. I crane my neck and glare at the back of his skull, hoping, _praying_ for him to turn around so I can see the look on his face while I chew him out. But then he jabs a bony white finger into the glass, toward the Blancpain villeret, and tells the clerk behind the counter, "I'll take this one, please."

Uhm.

_How about, No, go fuck yourself silly, I saw it first?_

"Hello? Hey, excuse me." I reach up and poke his shoulder. He shrugs but doesn't turn around. The nerve of this guy. I curl my fingers into a fist and tap him again, harder this time. "Ex- _cuse_ me! _Hellooo_ , can you hear me up there?"

The man turns, finally, and holy hot damn he's attractive. Rigid jawline, high cheekbones, bold blue eyes veiled by wispy red curls. His thin, freckled lips are pursed into an unhappy line. This guy is the infamous Mr. Steal Yo Girl, tall and dark and handsome as he is.

Except he doesn't just steal your girl, he also steals the watch you're planning to buy for your boyfriend because he's a dick.

"Yeah, what do you want?" He asks.

"That watch right there, the ugh...the Blancpain villeret? Yeah, I saw it first." The clerk slides the case open and sets the box containing the watch on the counter. "Don't listen to this guy, I saw it first, it belongs to me," I tell her as I duck under the mans' arm and reach for it. She blinks, lips moving as silent words tumble out. "I'll just take this and be on my-"

The man grabs my wrist and yanks me back. "Hands off, bitch. I got to it first."

"Well, _I_ would have gotten to it first if _you_ hadn't cut me off."

The man smirks. "I guess you'll just have to be quicker next time, won't you?"

"Ooh, you're a douche-bag."

"So I've been told."

The man slips a hand into his back pocket for his wallet. That's when I make my move. I lunge around him and snatch the box off the counter. The clerk shouts, and the man shouts, and I shout, just for the hell of it. He loops an arm around my waist and forces me back, pawing for the watch tucked securely to my breast. I shriek when his fingers hook into my shirt, underneath the padding of my bra, and all I can think is, _If he flicks my nipple, even by accident, I'm going to fucking kill him_ , and in the window I catch a brief glimpse of Elaine, her jaw slack and eyes popped.

It's a momentary shock seeing her there, a slight hesitation, but it's all the man needs. He grasps the box from my hand - removes his fingers from inside my bra - and whirls around, thrusting his arms out toward the clerk.

I suck in a deep breath, consider dropping the issue, apologizing, leaving the store-

Bah, fuck that. You guys know me better by now.

"RRRAGH!" I sprint forward and launch myself off of the ground, legs hooking around his hips. I grasp at flesh, clothing, hair as I struggle to clamber up his back while he tosses his body from side to side, like an angry bronco trying to buck me off. I latch onto his neck with one arm - he chokes, and never have I heard a more satisfying sound - and reach across his shoulder with the other, groping along his forearm for the box in his hand. "Give...me...the fuckin'...watch, you..." His other hand reaches back and splays across my cheek, his thumb slipping between my teeth, hooking the corner of my mouth. I bite down on his knuckle, hard.

Then there are more hands on my body, tugging frantically on my jacket, and Elaine's voice ripples over the chaos, "McKenna, get _off_ , security is coming." I whip my head around. Sure enough, two security guards are forcing their way through the crowd, badges shimmering gold in the light.

Ultimatum time: The watch, or jail?

The answer is obvious.

I slip a hand into the mans' hair and tug furiously on the tendrils, yanking his head back, forcing him to meet my eye. I whisper, nice and calm, "Last warning. Hand over the watch."

He gurgles out a defiant response, Adam's apple shuddering in his throat. I cluck my tongue.

"Fine. If you won't give me the watch...then perish."

~*~

What happened after that is a blur.

The security guards peeled me off of the man like a piece of Velcro, and Elaine says I didn't put up too much of a fight, which is surprising. Apparently I scared the man so bad he pissed himself, right there in the middle of the store. I thought that might entail victory, until Elaine told me that the clerk bagged the watch and gave him a discount, half off.

Half off. On a watch _already_ on clearance.

He paid a whole two goddamn dollars for that watch.

_Jack-ass._

He didn't press charges - if he had, then I really _would_ have killed him - and convinced the security guards to let me off with a warning. They were floored by this, practically itching to toss me into the slammer, but they couldn't deny a guy with piss running down his leg and a fearful gleam still lingering in his eye.

"What did I _do_ to him?" I asked Elaine, who swallowed thick and said, "Trust me, sis. You _don't_ wanna know. Just...remind me _never_ to get on your bad side."

The day continued on like normal. Elaine and I were quieter than usual, but other than that no one suspected that any great calamity had occurred. I bought a pen for Dad and a new Van Halen vinyl for Elaine, a set of brushes and paint for Richard, and a coffee mug for Corinne that had the words "Have a nice day" on the sides and a giant middle finger painted on the bottom.

As for Maui...zilch. Nothing. Nada.

When we rendezvous at the car, the big guy swoops me up into his arms, kisses all over my face, and asks, "Did you have fun today?"

I nestle into his neck, twining his hair around my fingers and resting my fingertips along his collarbone. I'm frustrated at not being able to get him that watch, and I want to cry because I'm so frustrated, but I don't want to tell him about it because then he'll scold me. So, I drag my lips, feather-light, over his skin and murmur, "Yeah, but I'm exhausted. Let's take a nap whenever we get home."

"I call dibs on being the little spoon."

"Maui...how many times do I have to tell you? That is _physically_ impossible. You are a _boulder_. I cannot fit my arms all the way around you. See?" I wind my arms around his hips. My fingers come to a stop at the dimples in his lower back, a full foot-and-a-half apart from each other. "Impossible."

"Theeeen...can I use your chest as a pillow?"

I snort.

"What? You have really soft boobs! Am I not allowed to praise them?"

"You know what? You can do whatever you want. Just...promise that you'll hold me, okay?"

"Don't worry. I promise, I will cuddle the shit out of you."

I want to laugh, or even smile, but my lungs squeeze and a whimper escapes me. Maui stiffens at the sound. I shake my head before he can speak. "I...I know this might not make any sense, but...I'm sorry. I'm just...so sorry."

Maui doesn't press me for details. I'm grateful to him for that. He simply drags his hands up and down my body, smoothing the tension out of my muscles. His lips rest on the crown of my head, and his hot breath feels so, so good against my skin. He says, softly, "I don't know what happened to make you feel the need to apologize to me, but I want you to know that I love you. And I'm proud of you." He slips a hand under my chin and brings my face to his, gazing into my eyes. "It seems to me like you needed to hear that."

I did.

I really, really did.


End file.
